


Where Angels Fear to Tread

by Kithri



Category: Good Wife (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 23:45:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 60,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kithri/pseuds/Kithri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Superhero AU - In a world where a superhero is just another marketable quantity, Alicia, aka Lady Liberty, struggles to make her own place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Establishing Shot

Establishing shot:

A blue sky, dotted with little white fluffy clouds. (Can we brighten those in post-production? They're looking a little grey.) Artistic lens flare (Really, Jerry? Really?) as the camera pans down to reveal the distinctive Chicago skyline. (Actually that distinctive skyline is looking a little straggly right now -- can we do something about that in post? Just a little tweak here and there; neaten it up a bit, you know.) Towering skyscrapers stand starkly silhouetted by dazzling summer sun, half in shadow, half in light. (Nice! Very arty -- are you aiming for cinematography award or something?)

Suddenly!

A dark shape zips across the sky. The camera zooms in to reveal a human figure, a woman, flying through the air. One arm is stretched out in front of her, while behind her hair and her half-cape flutter in the breeze. We zoom in closer, and the figure is instantly recognisable as Lady Liberty, Chicago's very own superheroine!

(She damn well should be recognisable if the marketing team are doing their goddamn jobs! Sarah: Do we have the latest brand recognition stats? I want to see if I need to go down there and choke a few people. Hell, maybe I'll do it anyway; keep them on their toes...)

Lady Liberty dives down towards the city. The camera zips after her.

Cut to:

We're at street level, somewhere in the middle of the city, surrounded by people. The people are fleeing in panic. The camera pans from side to side, just enough to show that this isn't just one or two people: it's practically a stampede. (Nice composition. Make sure you hold the shot long enough for the viewers to wonder what they're running from, but not so long that they get bored and change channel.)

Suddenly! (Repetition from out of nowhere! I kid, I kid. But watch it, okay?)

There's a luciferous orange flare from up ahead. The camera zooms in, and the images resolves itself into a roiling inferno of blazing hellfire.

(Did someone swallow a thesaurus this morning, Jerry? Are you trying to impress someone? Could it be little old me? Aww, I'm flattered. Just don't let anything flowery like this get beyond our little circle, hmm? We'll save the purple prose for the licensed romance novels. Which reminds me. Sarah: Schedule a boudoir photo shoot with our star ASAP. And do *not* let her know what kind of photos they are ahead of time, or she'll bolt. I mean it. I won't have a repeat of the last debacle.) 

People scream. The fleeing crowd flee faster, but the camera heads against the current, towards the disturbance.

(Well, duh! That's what we damn well pay them for! And we pay them damn well, too. Damn unions and their 'hazard pay' scam. It's not like any of them have actually died, or anything! Well, not recently. Not in at least a decade or so. I think.)

A man stands alone in the heart of the blaze, apparently unharmed. His legs are braced as if he stands against a mighty force, his arms spread wide, his head flung back. He seems to be laughing. (The guy certainly knows how to make an impression. I'll give him that much. Pity he can't fucking follow simple fucking instructions! Like sticking to the timetable we agreed. Goddamnit! Sarah: get me a meeting with this diva, stat.)

The man -- the supervillain -- seems oblivious to the screaming, running people. His laughter fades, the flames retract a little, apparently drawn back into his body ("apparently"? Please tell me you're just waxing poetic and you haven't been listening to the "it's all techno-gadgets and special effects" consipracy nuts, Jerry. You, of all people, should know better than that...) he turns his head from side to side as if scanning the sky. And then...

* * * * *

Lady Liberty lands softly, not even pausing to gather herself -- or to pose heroically -- before striding determinedly towards her antagonist. (No doubt Eli will whine later about the importance of striking a pose in reinforcing brand iconography, but right now she really doesn't care. She just wants to get this over with.) As she moves, her eyes are automatically scanning the scene before her, a distant part of her mind performing the assessment that's become a part of how she thinks.

There are no civilians in the immediate danger zone, which is good. There are a lot of glass-fronted buildings, which is bad, but there's enough open space that it shouldn't be a problem as long at they stick to the rules of engagement. (Well, as long as they don't go any further outside their bounds than doing this at all.) Cameras: one hand-held, no visible mobile rigs (but that doesn't mean they're not there), several fixed-place mounts disguised as security cameras. Recognising the handheld operator, she takes care to angle her approach so as to give him a good tracking shot of her silhouetted against the flames. From the discreet thumbs-up Carlos gives her, it works.

She takes a deep breath. "This is a no smoking zone, Captain. You're going to have to put that out before someone gets hurt."

Captain Corruption turns to face her. The helmet obscures part of his face, but not enough to hide the way he smiles as he makes a show of looking her up and down.

"Well, well, if it isn't Lady Liberty. Fancy meeting you here, Miss." A beat. "Or is that Mrs?"

"A little late for you to play innocent, isn't it?" She just about hits the light tone she was aiming for, but there's an edge she wasn't quite intending. Still, it could have been worse: his appearance here could have come as the surprise it was meant to be. She takes a slow, deliberate step forward, noting the way the flames retreat before her. Putting her hands on her hips, she makes herself smile, and the edge this time is entirely deliberate. "You called. I came. I am *not* going to let you hurt anyone. Now, what do you want?"

He pauses; hesitates, really, although to anyone but her it probably just looks like a beat for dramatic effect. He brings his hands in, palms together in a way that's not *quite* prayerful, not *quite* humble. (Not *quite* natural -- it took a team of image consultants to agree on the final pose.) The flames retreat into his body as he does so, damping down to the merest flicker outlining his black and red-clad form in a glowing nimbus.

"I want to talk." The words are quiet, reasonable, and hit her like a punch to the gut. But she's had a lifetime of putting on one mask or another, and so her only visible reaction is to raise one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

"So talk."

"Here?" He spreads his hands to indicate the street, the square, the city. "I don't think so." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out an envelope, presenting it to her with a theatrical flourish. She makes no move to take it.

"What's that?"

"Your invitation, of course."

"Invitation?"

"To dinner." He gestures again with the envelope. She looks down at it, looks up at his face, and then deliberately crosses her arms.

"Why?"

He rolls his eyes a little, a silent question: is she really going to make him do this? The tiniest nod of her head in return: yes; yes, she is. He sighs quietly, and she shifts her weight, balancing herself on the balls of her feet.

"Because I want to talk to you!" The words rip through the air, his aura flaring brightly, a wash of heat rolling over her as he flings his arms wide. She's already moving, leaping gracefully backwards just ahead of the flames, tossing her hair as she lands in a fighting pose. She can't help noting -- bitterly, ironically -- that whatever else may be said of them, they still dance well together. "You need to hear the truth!"

"The truth?" Coolly, she stares him down. (But then she always was ice to his fire, even before they became what they became.) "What does Captain Corruption know about truth?"

The silence stretches. Distantly, she's aware of the murmuring of voices from the edges of the square. Some of the more curious (and more foolhardy) of the civilians must have started creeping back to see the showdown with their own eyes. (To film it with their own phones.)

He laughs; a jagged sound, knife-edged and bitter.

"Hiding behind titles, Alicia? What's wrong, can't you even call me by my name any more?"

They're not supposed to. He knows they're not supposed to. Not out in the field, not on camera. It's not like their real names are exactly secret, but that's not the point. It's about the brand. It's always, always about the brand. Part of her wants to break the rules, just this once, to throw it in his face, to call him *Peter*.

But then, that would make this real.

And if she starts letting out what she's kept bottled up inside her all this time, she might never stop. And fuck the cameras, fuck the viewers, fuck the *brand*. It will just be Alicia and Peter and their failed marriage, hanging out there for everyone to see. A simple, ordinary, *boring* story about a man and a woman and a betrayal of trust.

But no one wants to see that. No one wants to know about the faces behind the masks.

They want to hear about Lady Liberty and Captain Justice, with their whirlwind romance and their fairytale wedding. They want to hear about how Captain Justice fell to the dark side and broke Lady Liberty's heart.

They don't want the truth, and she doesn't want to give herself to them one torn and bloody piece at a time. It's bad enough she has to play the role. But the role is her shield as much as theirs, and so she'll play it to the hilt.

Lady Liberty strides forward, braving the flames to face off against her nemesis. "You gave up your name when you turned to evil," she says softly, but clearly. She takes the invitation from his hand. She can feel the heat of it -- whatever it's made from it certainly isn't paper -- even through her glove, but she refuses to show any pain. (His fire has always been her kryptonite, but she can take it. And she knows she'll heal. She will always heal.) "You've delivered your message. Now get out of here before someone gets hurt."

He draws the fire into himself again and bows, a mocking smile on his lips.

"As the lady wishes." He starts to turn away from her, then turns back, pointing a gloved finger. "Just make sure you show up. If you don't, I'll have to try to get your attention again." He drops his voice into that low, menacing tone he does so well. "I don't think you want that."

And then, predictably, he takes off.

He always did like to have the last word.

Lady Liberty watches a moment to make sure the flames of his departure haven't started any fires, then turns away. Taking a few steps towards the crowd -- making sure to position herself so that Carlos can get a good shot -- she calls out to the crowd of spectators, letting her voice show concern.

"Is anyone hurt? Do you need help?"

A superheroine's work is never done...

* * * * *

The last shot:

Lady Liberty, Chicago's very own superheroine, stands in the square, reaching out to the people. The fading contrail of Captain Corruption's exit can just be seen in the sky behind her, but she resolutely faces forward.

Whatever turmoil may be in her heart, she has a job to do.

And cut.

(Yes. Yes, okay. Nice composition and camera work. More than adequate camera work, actually. Kudos to the guy holding it.

The narrative's... okay, but it doesn't really have the emotional impact I would have liked. Doesn't quite get the juices flowing. Unfortunately, that's more down to our star.

What does it take to crack that ice maiden facade of hers, anyway? Would it really have killed her to show a little shock? Her ex shows up in the middle of the city, apparently bending if not actually breaking the rules of the game, technically putting civilians at risk, personally calling her out! And the strongest reaction she can manage is 'stern disapproval'?

For fuck's sake!

I mean, don't get me wrong: I can work with the whole 'stoic resolve' angle. And the build-up will make it all the more memorable when she does finally let go, but still... Sarah: Ask Alicia to meet with me when she gets back from her school outreach thing, will you? Thanks.

Hey...

Do you think someone tipped her off?

Sarah: Look into it. Get, oh what's her name, Kali? Indira? Lydia? You know, the hot one with the stilettos. Whatever her name is, get her on the case. The last thing we need is someone feeding the talent unauthorised information. We wouldn't want the poor dears to get confused and actually try to do something extreme like, I don't know, use their own initiative.

Would we?

Anyway, I think this chapter's ready to hit the airwaves. Good one, Jerry. We'll meet tomorrow to discuss the next part of the arc. Sort out a timeslot with Sarah.

Now, let's go make some magic.

Excelsior. Or whatever.)

* * * * *

Lady Liberty lands on the roof of the Heroes, Inc. (Chicago branch) tower, hitting the landing spot dead centre. As always, she has a friendly smile and hello for the security guard on duty, who smiles back at her as he lets her into the lobby.

"Welcome back, Ma'am!" he says, cheerfully.

"Thanks, Joe," she replies, pressing the elevator call button. She's asked him a thousand times to call her Alicia, but he never does. He says it wouldn't be right; wouldn't be respectful. She's honoured, of course, but it makes her feel a little uncomfortable sometimes. "How are you today?"

"Oh, can't complain, can't complain. How about yourself? Another hard day of fighting crime?"

"Something like that." The elevator dings. "See you later, Joe."

"Goodbye, Ma'am."

As soon as the doors close, Alicia Florick sighs heavily, slumping back against the mirrored wall. It's been an exceedingly trying day and all she wants is a long, hot shower. Unfortunately, she has to get through a debriefing first. The elevator pings again, prompting her to put her shoulders back and lift her head up. Lady Liberty strides out into the corridor.

"Hey."

Alicia stops, turning to face the speaker with what feels like her first genuine smile of the day.

"Hey Kalinda." The other woman is leaning casually against the wall, arms folded, one stiletto-heeled boot crossed loosely over the other. "How did you know I was back?" The only answer is a raised eyebrow, and a tiny, amused quirk of the lips. Alicia laughs. "I know, I know. You have your ways."

Kalinda nods slightly. "Well?" she asks.

Alicia sighs. "You were right. Thanks for the heads up, by the way." Her voice hardens. "Apparently, Peter wanted to invite me to dinner."

"Are you going to go?"

"Do you think I have a choice?"

Kalinda shrugs. "There's always a choice. It just comes with... consequences."

"Tempting as it is to tell the powers that be where they can stick this invitation" -- Alicia waves it around for emphasis -- "I'm not sure I'm ready to deal with the inevitable fallout. Not yet, anyway."

Kalinda shrugs again, pushing off the wall and starting to click her way down the corridor. Alicia falls into step with her. The two of them walk along in companionable silence for a while.

"Let me know when you are." Kalinda speaks without looking at Alicia. Alicia darts a quick glance her way, and smiles.

"I will."

And, just like that, she starts to feel a little better. 

After all, everyone needs someone to watch their back.

And every superheroine needs a sidekick.


	2. Surface Details

Establishing shot:

Ground level. One of the Heroes, Inc towers soars into the sky, glinting in the sunlight. A figure can just be seen taking off from the roof.

(You know, I think I'm getting a little bored of that stock shot. And if I am, so are our viewers. This can go out as is, but I think we need something a little more... dynamic. Sarah: Schedule a meeting for me, Jerry, and whoever's the flavour of the month over in Design. Later in the week is fine.)

Cut to studio:

The host sits behind her desk, smiling at the camera.

(Shit, she looks about twelve years old. When the hell did they start hiring highschoolers? Damn! I swear my daughter's older than she is. Oh fuck. Sarah: Can you pop out and get me a birthday present suitable for a sixteen, no seventeen! God! A seventeen year-old girl? And get yourself something as well for your trouble. Save the receipt. Thanks, Sarah! You're a star.)

HOST: "Good evening, and welcome to "Eye on the Sky": your source for news and views on all the hottest heroes and villains of the hour. I'm Caitlin D'Arcy. First, we turn to my home town of Chicago, which just last week bore witness to an exciting confrontation between Lady Liberty and Captain Corruption. Were you all watching? I know I was certainly glued to the screen, but here's a quick reminder just in case.

[Insert Edited Footage]

Cut back to the studio:

HOST: "Well, wasn't *that* exciting? I certainly had my heart in my mouth the whole time. Well done, Lady Liberty! It can't have been easy facing down Captain Corruption like that. I have to say, though, villain or not, he certainly knows how to get a girl's attention! All that to invite her out for dinner? Wow. So, she accepted the invitation, but will she actually go through with the dinner itself? When and where will it be? What will happen if she doesn't show? What will happen if she *does* show? Could this be the start of a reconciliation, or an escalation? Text, tweet or e-mail the show to let us know what you think! In the meantime, let's see the reactions of some of the people on the street."

Cut to interview footage:

Soundbites from various people, from different parts of the country and different walks of life.

STEVEN, CHICAGO: "I was there when it happened. I thought for sure he'd really lost it; that he was going to cut loose and just fry the lot of us. But then Lady Liberty showed up, getting right up in his face and making sure he was focused on her, not us. She saved us. She's a real superhero. She's *our* superhero. God bless you, Lady Liberty!"

(Nice lead-in. It hits just the right note.)

KAREN, SEATTLE: "It's so *romantic*! Just like Romeo and Juliet. They obviously still have feelings for each other, even though she's a hero and he's a villain."

(She knows that Romeo and Juliet ended with a double suicide, right? I guess that would get ratings, but it's an awfully big expense to just write off. Superhumans don't come cheap!

Don't look at me like that, Jerry. I'm kidding. I'm kidding! God, I'm not actually going to have anyone killed off. Not for real. Anyway, it's much too soon to be thinking of concluding this particular arc. It's just getting to the juicy bit!)

VANCE, BALTIMORE: "I can't believe he did that, right in the middle of Chicago! People could have been killed! I didn't want to believe it, but I guess it's true: Captain Justice really is gone. He really... I was his biggest fan, and now he's *gone*. It's just Captain Corruption, now."

(Now, *that's* investing in a character. What are you betting he used to buy every bit of Captain Justice merchandise he could get his hands on? Now, how do we get him -- and people like him -- to transfer their affections to one of the other supers? Hero or villain, I'm not fussy. We get the royalties either way.)

MARIA, NEW YORK: "Good for Lady Liberty, standing up to Captain Corruption like that! She'd be better off with Mr Magnetism anyway. I bet *he'd* treat her right."

(Fantastic! People are finally starting to pick up on the love triangle subplot. That's good. Great, even. We can start playing that up a little more, now.)

DEIRDRE, ANN ARBOR: "I don't think he really wanted to hurt anyone. I think he's just wounded and lashing out. But I bet she could get through to him. I bet she could even bring him back to the light side. Don't give up on him, Lady Liberty!"

 

* * * * *

 

"Interesting viewing?"

Alicia jumps a little, having been far too engrossed in the television -- or, rather, in concentrating on not throwing the remote control through the television -- to hear the speaker's approach. Of course, she could have been on full alert and *still* not heard Kalinda until she spoke. Privately, she thinks that, despite her implicit denials, Kalinda must have some kind of stealth superpower. How else can she move so quietly in high heels?

"Just channel surfing," she says. Kalinda raises an eyebrow. Alicia half-turns so she can face her properly, lifting her chin and pulling her shoulders back. "I happened across this and I was curious." She winces internally at the defensive note in her voice. Kalinda just looks at her some more. "Fine!" she says, relaxing and sinking back into the cushions. "I watch it occasionally -- very occasionally! -- when no one else is around." She grins sheepishly. "Sometimes I like to know what they're saying about me."

Kalinda's face softens into an almost-smile. "I didn't say a thing," she murmurs, innocently.

Alicia shoots her a Look. "You didn't have to."

Kalinda shrugs, nodding at the screen. "And?"

"The usual." Alicia sighs heavily, turning the television off. "He's redeemable, he's irredeemable. They should get back together, they shouldn't get back together. She should get together with someone else..." She shrugs, tiredly. "You know."

"Ah. The usual."

"Yeah." They both smile. Kalinda's is wry and barely there at all. Alicia's starts out an ironic twist of the lips, but then brightens and broadens, dimpling one cheek. "But I'm used to it by now." She pats the sofa invitingly. "Want to join me? I'm sure there are plenty more trashy TV programmes out there. We can rip them to pieces together. I'll make popcorn. It'll be fun."

Kalinda shakes her head slowly. "Can't. Sorry." She sounds genuinely regretful. "And you're about to have other plans."

"What?" Alicia surges to her feet in a burst of energy, amusement turning to trepidation. "What are they throwing at me this time?"

Kalinda makes a calming motion with her hand, her expression reassuring and slightly amused. It helps a little: Alicia feels herself relaxing fractionally. It can't be *that* bad if Kalinda is looking at her like that.

Can it?

She opens her mouth to ask the question again, more urgently, but Kalinda is already answering. "You know how you hate surprise parties..."

It isn't a question.

"Oh," says Alicia. And then: "Ohhhh." The second is definitely more of a groan than a word. "When?"

"Any minute now."

Alicia groans again, flinging an arm over her face as if she can make the whole thing just go away by sheer force of will. Unfortunately, that isn't one of her powers. Kalinda waits patiently while she sighs heavily, then pulls her arm away and straightens her hair.

"What's the occasion?"

"Mr Magnetism congratulating Lady Liberty on driving off Captain Corruption. And saving innocent bystanders."

Alicia frowns. "But Will wouldn't..." Her words trail off as comprehension dawns. "Eli."

Kalinda shrugs. "You didn't hear it from me."

"Of course not," says Alicia, distractedly. "Thanks, Kalinda. I appreciate it."

"No problem," murmurs Kalinda, inclining her head.

Alicia's phone pings. She pulls it out, quirking an eyebrow as she scans the screen. "Well, what do you know? Julius wants me to come down to the rec room. Apparently there's something I just *have* to see."

"Sounds exciting. Maybe you'd better get down there."

"Maybe I should." Alicia doesn't sound enthused. But then, she doesn't particularly feel enthused. She'd retreated here to get away from people; from the ever-present cameras. The *last* thing she feels like doing right now is going out there and being *sociable*. Pretending that she's surprised and flattered and altogether gosh-darn happy to be there.

But then, it's all part of the job, isn't it? Probably as much as -- if not more than -- the actual business of saving people. (Which, of course, was the reason she signed up for this whole thing in the first place. But that sometimes seems like such a long, long time ago. This is one of those times.)

"It might be fun."

Kalinda has her innocent face on again, her voice utterly deadpan. Alicia directs another Look her way, but she seems remarkably unfazed by it.

She does, however, look a little concerned when Alicia *smiles*.

"Why don't you come along? I wouldn't want you to miss out on the fun, after all."

"Can't. Busy."

There's no sorry this time, and she doesn't sound in the least bit regretful. Not that Alicia blames her. Although she wouldn't have minded the backup.

"Can't blame a girl for trying," Alica says, and sighs. "I guess I'd better go before they send out a search party. Wish me luck."

"Good luck."

Somehow, Alicia has the feeling that she's going to need it.

 

"Surprise!"

Lady Liberty looks suitably startled as she walks through the door of the rec room to be greeted by the ragged chorus. It comes from what at first glance seems like a small horde of people, but probably isn't more than ten or so.

"Oh!" she exclaims, looking around. She notes the banners -- all displaying variations on 'Congratulations!' -- streamers and bunting. (She also notes the fact that the telltales on the cameras are a steady green, indicating that they're all live. But then she'd have been more shocked if they weren't.) "What's all this?"

Will, no, Mr Magnetism steps out of the small knot of people, smiling broadly as he comes over to embrace her. "It's for you," he proclaims loudly, jovially. "Congratulations on facing down Captain Corruption." Will pulls her in close, taking the opportunity to whisper softly in her ear. "Eli's idea, sorry. Cameras live. Just go with it."

"Thanks," she whispers back, returning the embrace.

Mr Magnetism steps back, leaving an arm around her waist as he leads her into the room. "You did good," he says, more quietly, and she's almost -- but not quite -- surprised to hear a note of something genuine, something sincere within the slick smoothness of his delivery. "We just wanted to make sure you knew that."

Her answering smile perhaps doesn't feel as forced as she was expecting. "Thank you," she says, softly. And then, louder: "Thank you all." She smiles at them: superheroes and support staff alike. No Eli; not yet. That makes the mask sit a little easier. Maybe this won't be too bad, after all.

"Congratulations, Lady Liberty." The words are spoken in a tone just the right side of amused, shaded with the merest tinge of irony. But then, subtlety was always one of Diane's strong suits.

Alicia turns to face her, gracefully (and gratefully) accepting the champagne glass that the other woman holds out to her.

"Thank you," she says, smiling. "Were you in on this as well?"

"Only as manual labour." Diane raises her glass to Will. "It was all his idea, though." Alicia doesn't miss the look that passes between the two of them. The slightest lift of Diane's eyebrows; a question. A fractional movement of Will's head; an answer. If Alicia had to guess -- and, really, she knows them both well enough that she hasn't had to do that for a long time -- then the question is probably: 'Does she know?' and the answer: 'Yes'.

"And a fine idea it is, too." Julius' interjection seems to be the cue for the others to launch into a spontaneous (or, 'spontaneous') cheer, followed by a round of congratulations and praise.

Alicia smiles, and thanks them all, and smiles some more.

"Right," says Will. "Now that the guest of honour is here, let's get this party started." Stepping backward, he sweeps an elegant bow and holds out a hand to Alicia, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "Shall we dance?"

"There's no music," she protests, laughing a little helplessly.

"That's easily fixed," he murmurs. He snaps his fingers, and the soundsystem crackles into life. Alicia holds back a wince, still half-expecting it to expire in a cloud of black smoke like the first five stereos he tried this little trick on. Will shoots her a mock-hurt look. Clearly she didn't suppress the wince enough. Or she's just getting predictable in her old age.  
(After all, mid-twenties is practically ancient in superhero years. Not that she'd ever let Diane hear her say that, of course. The Iron Lady is first generation, a real old school hero. Back when that was their first and only job. Alicia sometimes envies her that.)

Music fills the room. It's some chart number she vaguely recognises, but doesn't particularly care for. She knows it's not to Will's taste either, but then this party isn't really about them. Either of them. Any of them. So she puts her glass down and takes Will's hand, smiling.

"So let's dance."

After all: whatever else might be said about them, they do dance well together.

 

"You wanted to see me?"

Eli Gold looks up to see a woman standing in his doorway, an inscrutable expression on her face. He smiles.

"Kalinda. Yes." He makes a mental note to remind Sarah not to send anyone through without buzzing him first, even if his door is open. "Thanks for stopping by. Come in. Take a seat. Do you want any refreshments? Tea? Coffee? Water?"

Kalinda shakes her head, closing the door behind her and crossing the room with swift, sure strides. "I'm good, thanks." She takes the indicated seat, looking at Eli enquiringly.

"I'll get right to the point," he says, leaning forward. "I need an investigator, and everyone I've asked says you're the best one we have on staff."

He pauses to allow her to respond to that, but she ignores the compliment completely, instead asking: "What do you need investigating?" Her large, dark eyes remain fixed on his face, giving nothing away. 

That's good. Businesslike is good. He can work with this.

"I think that the flow of information might have been compromised," he says delicately.

"Internally or externally?" Kalinda takes out a pen and orange notebook, looking at him expectantly.

"Internally," he says, frowning a little to impress upon her the seriousness of the situation. "I can't be certain, but I believe that one or more of the Faces may have access to unauthorised information."

"Why do you believe that?"

"Some of their reactions have been a little... off." He smiles a little self-deprecatingly. "I realise that sounds a little imprecise, but I like to believe I know my team pretty well, and I can tell when something's not quite right."

He expects her to ask the obvious question -- why is it a problem -- but she surprises him with: "When did this start?" 

"I don't know," he says, letting a little of his irritation show. "That's what I want you to find out."

"It would be helpful if you can narrow down the timeframe a little."

That makes sense, he supposes. He casts his mind back, trying to work out when he first started suspecting that they -- particularly Alicia -- maybe knew a little more than they should.

"Within the past few weeks, I think." Kalinda writes something in her notebook. "I can't be sure, though," he hastens to add.

"That's fine," she says. "Is it the whole team, or just some of them?"

He hesitates a moment, then decides that there's no particular point in holding back. Not if he actually wants to get to the bottom of this. "Alicia, mainly. Possibly Will as well."

She nods, making some more notes. "Why don't you just tell me everything you can think of that might be relevant?" A small smile, gone as quickly as it appears. "Start at the beginning."

"And you'll be able to find out if there's anything to this?"

Privately, he hopes there isn't anything more than his own paranoia at work here. But just in case there isn't...

"I'll see what I can do."

"Good." Eli takes a deep breath, gets his thoughts in order and begins at the beginning.

 

* * * * *

 

Back in the studio:

HOST: "So, it looks like there's trouble brewing for the New York team. Let's hope Valkyria and Radar manage to put aside their differences long enough for the team to track down and deal with their mysterious antagonist. Could there be a new supervillain on the scene? I guess we'll have to wait and see.

Anyway, that's just about it for today's show. Thank you for your thoughts and thank you all for watching. I'll leave you with an exclusive preview of some footage from Chicago. Goodbye from me, Caitlin D'Arcy, and from all the team here at 'Eye on the Sky'. See you next time!"

(Do you suppose she's naturally that perky, or does she just mainline uppers when she's filming? Wow.)

Cut to clips:

The Iron Lady, saying: "It was all his idea."

Close-up of Lady Liberty looking startled.

Mr Magnetism, holding his hand out to Lady Liberty: "Shall we dance?"

Lady Liberty and Mr Magnetism moving in as if to embrace.

Blacklight and Mr Magnetism talking. Blacklight is shaking his head, looking concerned. "You need to be careful, M. You know he's not just going to let this go."

Lady Liberty smiling, holding a bunch of flowers.

Mr Magnetism to Blacklight, smiling confidently: "I know what I'm doing."

Iron Lady, thoughtfully, looking out over the city: "I have a bad feeling about this."

Close-up on Lady Liberty's face as she takes the card from the flowers, showing the way her smile fades as she reads the message.

Mr Magnetism, passionately: "You can't do this!"  
Lady Liberty, resolutely: "I have to."

End credits.

(Nice escalation. Let's just hope the pay-off lives up to all the expectation! We need to be very careful how we play this next part. The pacing's going to be tricky, especially with one of our leads being so... independently-minded. Sarah: Did Peter get back to you about that meeting? Oh, he did? Finally! When? Okay, good. That's fine. I think it's best if I handle this one on my own. He gets prickly if he thinks we're trying to 'script' him too much. I don't know. It's like he thinks it's the old days, or something! No, Jerry, I'm sure it'll be fine. When push comes to shove, he knows where his best interests lie, and it isn't in going rogue. Trust me on this one.

So, 'Eye on the Sky' is fine to air. What's next? Oh, right. How's 'At Home with the Superheroes' coming along?)


	3. Behind the Scenes

Establishing shot:

The camera pans over the Chicago skyline, coming to rest on the Heroes, Inc tower. The point of view zooms in, focusing on the logo before tilting and falling down towards a figure standing on the pavement below.

Cut to:

Caitlin D'Arcy, host of 'Eye on the Sky,' stands in front of the main entrance to the tower. She's holding a microphone and beaming into the camera.

(I still think she must be popping happy pills or something. No one, and I mean *no one* is naturally that perky. Especially at whatever godawful time in the morning she actually started filming. Yes, Jerry, I know she's just the same off-camera as on it. What's your point?

I still think we should have pushed harder for Oprah; added a little gravitas to the proceedings. Well of *course* I know Ms D'Arcy and her ilk test better with the younger demographic. Are you seriously trying to tell me -- *me*! -- how to play an audience? I didn't think so. Anyway, I was just saying.)

HOST: "Hello and welcome to a very special edition of 'Eye in the Sky'. I'm Caitlin D'Arcy, and today I'm going to be at home with Chicago's superheroes. Yes, that's exactly what it sounds like. We will be spending the entire day with the team, shadowing them even into areas that have previously been off-limits. Like their living quarters! As well as finding out just what exactly constitutes a typical day in the life of Chicago's superheroes, I'll be conducting a series of in-depth interviews, during which I'll be asking questions sent in by you, our audience.

(You know she actually had the gall to -- very politely -- try to get away without letting us vet her questions ahead of time. Some waffle about spontaneity, and encouraging the natural flow of the conversation. Conversation! Can you imagine? Naturally, I set her straight on the matter. Who knows what she could have come out with otherwise.)

Are you excited yet? I know I am!

I'm sure you'll all join me in giving them a hearty thanks for allowing us to see behind the curtain and into their day-to-day lives.

So, without further ado, let's head into the tower...

* * * * *

Two figures stand on the roof of the Heroes, Inc tower. Two women, one dark, one bright. Kalinda, dusky complexion and black leather; Alicia fair-skinned and swathed in red and white, Lady Liberty's colours. They stand side by side, leaning on the guard rail as they peer down at the activity on the pavement below.

"She's early," Kalinda remarks.

"Yes. She got here a little while ago. I'm not sure exactly what she's doing."

"Going over the shooting plan, setting up shots, doing a few different takes of her introduction, getting some stock footage of the tower, introducing herself and her crew to to security." Kalinda shrugs. "Spontaneous filming takes a lot of preparation."

Which, of course, Alicia would probably have known if she'd cared to think it through. But she just grins, nudging Kalinda's arm lightly with her elbow. "Trust you to have an answer."

Kalinda's only response to that is another shrug.

They stand there in companionable silence for a little while. Alicia tries to enjoy these last precious minutes of freedom before she has to go and perform for the world (well, the audience of Eye on the Sky), but her thoughts keep circling back to the ordeal ahead.

'It isn't fair,' she thinks to herself. Their living space has always been off-limits. *Always*. But Eli has this bee in his bonnet about making them seem more real, of getting the audience invested in them as people, rather than just characters. The 'human interest' angle, he calls it.

'Superhuman interest' when he's trying to be cute.

So, this whole 'day in the life' palaver is supposed to be about letting the audience see the men and women behind the masks. But the hell of it is, the only thing they're going to see when the mask is lifted... is yet another mask! Because there's no way on this earth that Eli will let *anything* hit the airwaves if it doesn't fit with the story he wants to tell.

It's a joke.

It's the biggest joke there is.

And Alicia can't help but laugh.

Kalinda looks at her quizzically, raising an eyebrow.

Alicia shakes her head, bringing herself under control again. "Nothing," she says. "Just Eli's control-freak tendencies."

"Ah." Kalinda nods understandingly. And Alicia believes she really does. Understand, that is. It feels... nice.

Spirits buoyed, she glances down at the pavement again, where Caitlin seems to be having an earnest conversation with a member of her camera crew.

"I should probably head down to hair and make-up sometime soon," she says, regretfully. "They're going to frown at me for letting myself get so windblown."

"It suits you." Kalinda glances quickly away after speaking, just missing Alicia's startled smile.

"Thank you." Somewhat wryly, Alicia adds. "Probably just as well. Short of setting it in concrete, a little mussing is unavoidable when I'm zipping around the skies." She pushes back off the rail but makes no move to actually leave the rooftop. "I wonder what Ms D'Arcy would do if I just hopped down there and said hello," she muses.

Kalinda glances back over her shoulder, the corners of her lips quirking upwards ever so slightly. "You could find out," she says softly.

Alicia shakes her head. "Eli would have a fit. You know how he feels about unsanctioned interactions with members of the press. And, as far as I can tell, 'interaction' means 'being within fifty feet of them'."

All the same, she does like the idea of sizing up the opposition ahead of the day's filming. (And, if she's honest, the thought of catching one of the press off-guard does appeal to her buried malicious streak.)

"They're not filming right now," Kalinda points out.

Alicia makes up her mind.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Kalinda frowns a little.

"I'm going to do it. Wish me luck!"

Without further ado, Alicia springs forward and dives over the rail. As she starts to fall, she hears Kalinda's voice, faintly, from above her.

"Luck."

 

The wind whips past Alicia as she turns her plummet into a controlled dive, waiting until she's halfway to the ground before rapidly shedding velocity. At the last minute, she rolls and flips like a gymnast at the peak of an arc, landing softly on the balls of her feet.

Just behind Caitlin.

Caitlin spins around and freezes, eyes widening in shock. The man she was speaking to starts to swear, then stops himself. The rest of her team give various expressions of surprise. Alicia smiles cheerfully, striking a heroic pose; legs akimbo, hands on her hips. (Eli would be so proud. Apart from wanting to throttle her for doing this in the first place, that is.)

"Good morning, Ms D'Arcy," Alicia says, cheerfully. "Sorry for startling you all." That malicious streak aside, she actually is sorry, a little. Just a little. "I saw you down here and thought I'd pop down and say hello."

To Caitlin's credit, she recovers quickly, the shocked look on her face wiped away by a grin so broad Alicia half-wonders if it's going to split her face in two.

"Lady Liberty! Gosh, what a surprise. Good morning! It's so great to finally meet you in person. And please call me Caitlin." She sticks out her hand, apparently automatically, then looks a little uncertain. "I don't know if-" she starts to say, but Alicia just grins and shakes her hand.

"Nice to meet you, Caitlin," she says. "I'm Alicia." After all, if she's going to flout Eli this once, she might as well do it properly. She hasn't lost all sense, however. Lowering her voice mock-conspiratorially, she adds: "But not on camera, if you don't mind."

"Oh! Of course." Caitlin pauses, then, in a low, almost reverent voice, says: "Alicia." She beams like she's the happiest person in the world, and no matter how much Alicia keeps telling herself it's all an act, she can't help warming to the other woman just a little bit. "Let me introduce you to the team!"

Caitlin turns to the other people milling around, most of whom are still looking rather awestruck. (All but one, Alicia can't help noticing. A woman whose expression is so determinedly neutral it almost seems downright hostile in comparison to the others. But it's probably just reaction to the shock of Alicia's arrival. Or the woman is just naturally reserved. Alicia can certainly sympathise with that.)

"The woman with the notebook is Vanessa: shoot manager, researcher and all-round miracle-worker." That would be the reserved woman. She does, however, relax enough to give Caitlin a small smile and nod cordially at Alicia.

"Pleased to meet you."

Alicia nods back. "And you."

Caitlin continues with the introductions.

"Martin and Simon are on the cameras." The cameramen wave. Simon, the one who started swearing in surprise when Alicia dropped in, flushes a little.

"Sorry about..." He stumbles to a halt, gesturing vaguely.

"Don't worry about it," Alicia says genially. It seems to help.

"Tariq and James are the sound and lighting engineers. respectively."

Both men nod. Tariq manages a shy: "Hello."

Alicia nods and smiles.

"And that's all of us!"

"Nice to meet you all."

"Well, we're just so happy to be here! Thank you so much for doing this. It will mean so much to our viewers."

As Caitlin chatters on, Alicia smiles and nods in the right places, answering the questions she can and politely demurring on the ones she can't (or won't). Strange though it seems this woman *actually* seems... genuine. Of all the things Alicia might have been expecting, that wasn't one of them. Maybe this 'behind the scenes' thing won't be as bad as she thought.

Maybe.

But she's not quite ready to forgive Eli for it yet.

And, speaking of the Wizard...

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to say goodbye for the moment." She interrupts Caitlin as politely as she can, smiling apologetically. "I have an appointment I need to get to."

"Oh! Of course. I'm so sorry for keeping you talking."

"That's no problem at all," Alicia says. "It was nice to meet you all." She smiles around at all of them. Even at Vanessa, who seems to be eyeing her warily. "I'll see you in a little while."

And on that note, she takes off.

 

Kalinda is still waiting for her as she lands softly on the roof.

"How was it?" she asks softly.

"It was... okay," Alicia says. "Quite pleasant, actually. Caitlin was very... human. And nice."

Kalinda ducks her head a little, but not before Alicia sees the small smile quirking her lips.

"What?"

"Just wondering why you were surprised at Caitlin being human."

"I just meant..." Alicia waves her hand vaguely, trying to find the words to describe what she means. "I was expecting some kind of media robot; someone who just wanted to dig for scandal and drama. But she actually seemed to care about making us look good."

"Well, of course she'd want to give that impression..." The waves of cynicism coming from Kalinda are practically tangible.

Alicia shakes her head. "I really think she meant it."

"Hmmm." Kalinda sounds less than convinced. Tilting her head, she looks thoughtfully at Alicia. "So, what did you think of Vanessa?"

"The shoot manager? I didn't really talk to her much. Kind of reserved, I guess." She looks sharply at Kalinda. "Why do you ask."

"Her full name is Vanessa Gold."

Alicia blinks. "Gold? Like Eli? They're related?" She pauses as a thought strikes her. "She's his *wife*?!"

"Ex-wife."

"What's she doing here? Does Eli know?"

"She's a hotshot investigative reporter. Prize-winning. Not sure what her angle here is; probably doing some kind of expose. Eli knows." She shrugs deprecatingly. "He had me investigate the team before agreeing to allow them on-site."

"I... see." But Alicia doesn't see, not at all. "Does she have a grudge against him? Why would he even let her in here?"

"They seem to get on reasonably well as long as they're not actually married to each other," Kalinda says wryly. "I think it's more of a... friendly competition."

"But I still don't see why he'd let her in if he knows she's going to be trying to expose... whatever there is to expose. It doesn't make *sense*!"

"It does if he thinks he has nothing to hide. If he's confident that anything she can dig up will only benefit the team." A small, tight smile. "If he has reason to be confident that she can't do any harm."

*Now* the lightbulb clicks on in Alicia's head. "He's playing her, isn't he?"

"He's... trying to. But he's underestimating her. If there is anything he doesn't want coming out, it could honestly go either way."

"But if it goes the way he wants, he's got a prize-winning reporter who -- as far as anyone else knows -- has every reason to have a grudge against him, actively coming out and saying that there's nothing to hide..."

"It won't appease the hardline conspiracy theorists," Kalinda notes, "but it will make Joe and Jane Q. Public less likely to drink their Koolaid."

"Huh. That's... tricksy."

"That's Eli."

"Huh." Alicia says again. She shakes her head to clear the cobwebs. "Anyway, interesting -- and disturbing -- as all of this is, I really do have to go. Apparently, our target demographic prefers its superheroines primped and preened within an inch of their lives."

"And we have to think about our demographic," says Kalinda, gravely.

"Yes," agrees Alicia. And she can't quite keep the jagged bitter edge from her heart and her voice as she echoes: "We *have* to think about our demographic..."

 

* * * * *

"We have to think about our demographic." Eli says firmly, waving some papers around for emphasis. (According to Will, those are probably just some random official-looking hardcopies he managed to scrounge up before the meeting. Alicia isn't *quite* sure she believes that, but she isn't going to discount it either.) "They're just not responding well to these associations at all. If we don't do something, it's going to irreparably damage the popularity of you as individuals and the team as a whole."

Will snorts loudly, spinning around in his chair. "Eli doesn't want to alienate the segment of the population that'll just about tolerate a black superhero -- at least out loud -- but will pitch a fit if it even looks like members of the team are associating with *Ay*rabs," he translates. "Isn't that right, Julius?"

Julius rolls his eyes expressively. "Otherwise known as the 'acceptably racist,' market," he agrees.

Alicia looks away, unsure if the expression on her face is closer to a wince or a smirk. She catches Peter's eye. He gives her a small smile, but his eyes are grave, his arms crossed. He seems less than impresssed with the proceedings.

"No!" Eli exclaims, throwing his papers down onto the conference table so forcefully that some of them skid across the polished surface and fall onto the carpet. "That is *not* what I was saying at all!" Alicia leans down to pick the papers, sneaking a quick peek. She laughs.

"You really did just grab any random papers you had laying around your office, didn't you?"

"I *told* you he did," pouts Will, mock-woundedly. "You never believe me."

"Because you tell the most outrageous lies!"

"Do not."

"Yes, you do."

"Do not!"

Eli's face is starting to turn an interesting shade of red. "Oh, *I'm* sorry," he interjects. "I thought this was a briefing, not a playgroup."

Will looks utterly confused. "Really? Is that what this is? Because I had it down in my diary as a KKK rally..."

"I am NOT! BEING! RACIST!"

Dead silence follows Eli's below. Will stops his chair mid-spin. Alicia quietly puts Eli's papers back on the loose pile in front of him.

"That's better," Eli breathes. "Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted-"

The door swings open.

"Sorry I'm late," says Jonas, striding confidently into the briefing room. He grabs a chair and manouevres it around Will, claiming a space next to Diane. "Did I miss anything important?"

Eli makes a strangled noise.

Will scoots his chair forward and stage-whispers to the others. "Uh oh. Looks like it's time for the Gold-en Shower of Rage. Get it? Eli *Gold*?" he says to a chorus of groans.

Eli chokes and coughs and splutters in response, glaring daggers at Will, who attempts (unconvincingly) to look innocent.

"I'm not sure I want to know," Jonas chuckles, shaking his head.

Finally managing to bring his voice back under control, Eli spins on his heel and glowers at Diane.

"Can you please get your... your *team* under control," he all-but growls, stabbing his finger wildly in their general direction.

Diane tilts her head and studies him for a long moment before replying. "I don't know, Eli," she says, quietly. "I mean, I wouldn't want to overstep any boundaries; confuse any chains of command." She gives the tiniest smile, a mere quirk of the lips that doesn't get anywhere near her eyes. "You know how I do so hate to muddy the waters."

All around the room, the mirth dies away, replaced by raised eyebrows and winces. Sometimes, Alicia reflects, it's easy to forget just how cutting Diane can be when she puts her mind to it. And this is an old and bitter argument.

Eli opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, a vein in his temple bulging ominously. "We've discussed this, Diane," he says, sounding as if he's having to force the words out. "I direct the overall arc and I'm in charge of all the media stuff, but this is *your* team. You're responsible for logistics and day to day operations."

"Hmm," Diane says, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "It certainly sounds clear enough when you put it like that. I suppose the recent... confusion... was just a misunderstanding?"

"Confusion?" Alicia hadn't thought it was possible for Eli's face to become any redder, but apparently she was wrong. He shakes his head, his nose wrinkling like he's just come across a very bad smell. "What confusion?"

Diane shrugs understatedly. "Some of my decisions -- decisions regarding the logistics and day to day operations of my team -- have been... overridden by..." That smile again. That one Alicia is very glad isn't directed at her. "People on your staff. Using your name. But if it's just a misunderstanding..."

Ah. So, Eli's been interfering, but Diane is willing to allow him to save face. Or maybe she doesn't want to risk having her authority officially curtailed, rather than merely unofficially.

There's another long moment of silence as Eli and Diane look at each other. Diane's expression is polite and neutral. Eli narrows his eyes, his hands twitching as if he wants to start throwing things. Or throttling someone. Alicia would almost -- almost -- like to see him try the second one. Even almost crippled with arthritis, the Iron Lady is more than capable of making a single unenhanced human very sorry he tried to mess with her.

But Eli apparently has better sense and better self-control than that. He takes a couple of deep breaths, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to stave off a tension headache. Muttering something inaudible, he sits back down and opens his eyes again, nodding at Diane.

"I'll speak with my staff," he grinds out, grudgingly.

Diane smiles beneficently at him. "Thank you, Eli. I appreciate it." She turns her gaze on the rest of them, her expression becoming stern. "Now," she says, firmly. "I would like you all to let Eli finish the briefing without interruptions. I'm sure we can manage that, can't we?" They all nod. "Good. Now, Eli, I belive you were telling us why these new guidelines *aren't* racist?"

Eli glowers a little, almost visibly restraining himself from making some edged retort. Instead, he takes a couple of deep, calming breaths and looks around at the team.

"Right. Well. I'll summarise for the late arrival." He shoots a sharp look in Jonas' direction. "We've finally finished processing the data from our latest batch of opinion polls and focus groups and... there are a few clear conclusions to be drawn." He coughs. "First of all, while your individual looks get generally positive reactions, there is definitely some room for improvement, so we will be making a few adjustments. Nothing too drastic," he hastens to add, making shushing gestures at the chorus of groans and mutterings. "Just the odd tweak here and there. Sarah will be scheduling appointments for you all with costuming over the next week. We'll try to get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible."

The grumbling subsides.

"Second, and overwhelmingly, the audience wants to see more of your personal lives and interactions with each other."

"What, fighting crime and performing superhuman feats isn't enough for them?" Will wants to know.

Eli smiles thinly. "No, Will, it isn't. As well you know. As you *all* know. So we're brainstorming some ideas at the moment, and we'll hold another meeting when we have some things pinned down."

"That's the thing I love about these briefings," Julius observes, wryly. "How informative they are. 'Some adjustments' to costumes. 'Some ideas' for things to show the public. Really, Eli, all these details. You're spoiling us."

"There's no need for sarcasm," Eli says tightly. "This is just a heads up to let you know in general terms what's coming down the pipeline. You know, like you all specifically requested. If you want to wait until I have all the details ready to give you, then by all means we can do that." His voice is starting to climb in pitch and volume again. "But I *thought* this was what you *wanted*!"

"This is fine, Eli," Diane cuts in. "As long as we get the details when you have them."

"That was the *plan*, Diane," he says.

"He's a poet and he didn't know it." Will, sotto voce.

"That's not helpful, Will," Peter gently rebukes him.

Will grins sharkishly, opening his mouth to retort, but Alicia jumps in before he can say anything. "We did say we'd let Eli continue uninterrupted," she points out.

"Thanks you!" says Eli, throwing up his hands. "Thirdly, it seems that a significant majority of the people in our primary demographic have some... strong views about the individuals you associate with." He hurries on before anyone can speak up. "Specifically, the numbers show a consistent drop in popularity, which translates into a measurable drop in *income*, every time Will is seen with..." He roots around amongst the papers scattered in front of him for a moment and triumphantly pulls out one -- possibly the only one -- that seems to have some relevant information on it. "Jamal Aziz. Every time Julius hangs out with Gerard Du Morne. Or with Radar from the New York team. Every time Alicia meets with Sharifa Khalil. Or does anything with or for Ms Khalil's organisation, for that matter."

"But it's a charity," Alicia objects, finally stung to speech despite her resolve to stay silent and just get this briefing over with. "It's a foundation for ensuring that girls in third world countries receive access to education."

"I know what it is, Alicia." Eli speaks slowly, with exaggerated patience. "And some of our audience probably know it too. Hell, some of our audience probably even donate. I know *I* do. My daughter insists on it. But the vocal majority apparently either don't know or don't care. They disapprove nonetheless." He takes a deep breath. "And we cannot afford to ignore that."

"Why not?" Alicia admires Julius' ability to make that question sound reasonable, rather than hostile. "Will it really hurt the bottom line that much?"

Eli sighs heavily, slouching in his seat. "Actually, yes it will." Alicia is suddenly struck by how tired he seems. "I know you think I'm all about the image and the PR and the market share. I know you think I get in the way of you doing actual *heroics*. And you're not entirely wrong about that. But I'm not doing this just to be an asshole." He shrugs. "Well, not usually."

He grins briefly, tightly, and then his expression sobers again. "It isn't like the old days. You're not agents. You're not public servants. You're privately contracted employees. And, frankly, you're expensive as all hell. Heroes, Inc is a business. Unlike the government, it can't afford to run at a loss. If it doesn't make a consistent, significant profit, then the powers that be will can the whole programme. And then there'll be no heroics at all."

"Are we at risk of being shut down?" Peter's voice seems loud in the silence following Eli's words.

"Not imminently, no," Eli replies. "But that's because we've made damn sure it hasn't even gotten close to that point. Unlike Philadelphia. Not that you heard that from me."

Will sits up straight in his chair. "They're shutting down the Philly team? Why?"

"Because they're *boring*. They don't have a story. Their on-screen personas are utterly bland. They keep the cameras far away from their personal lives. There's just nothing there for the people to latch on to, so people don't watch them. Which means none of the major networks want to pay to broadcast their 'exploits'." He makes air-quotes with his fingers. "Aside from a few completists, no one's buying their merchandise. Their income is negligible, but their running costs sure as shit aren't. Add in a couple of expensive lawsuits resulting from some of their 'heroic actions' and they're haemorrhaging money right now." He shakes his head. "It's getting pretty ugly out there."

"What's going to happen to the team?" Alicia wants to know.

"Most likely reinvented and reassigned. I guess at one or two of them might be retired, though."

Diane leans forward in her seat. "Retired? You mean de-attuned?"

"Well, *yeah*." Eli rolls his eyes. "What did you think it meant? A bullet to the head? God! Anyway, the point I was trying to make, before I got a little side-tracked, was that we have to do everything we can to make sure *we* don't end up in the same boat as Philadelphia. Which means making a few sacrifices." He takes a deep breath. "So. I am going to ask you to try to limit your associations with anyone we've flagged up as 'problematic'. And let us vet any new contacts you make."

The room erupts at that, everyone talking over everyone else.

"What?"

"You can't-"

"I'm sure if-"

"Is that really-"

Stern is the only one of the team who remains silent, staring fixedly down at the conference table as if it holds some fascinating insight.

"You want to vet our *friends*?" Unusually, Alicia's voice cuts across the babble, silencing it. She looks at Eli, torn between anger and pleading.

He glances away, shuffling his papers. "I'm afraid it's the only way we can try to head off problems like this before they become serious."

"How is it even going to work?" Will wants to know. "We have to tell anyone who so much as says hello: 'Sorry, work has to run a background check on you before I can reply'?"

"No, of course not," Eli replies, exasperatedly. "That would be ridiculous."

"You're telling me!"

"We're working on some guidelines, but one-off, unplanned encounters should be fine. Within reason." He looks sharply at Will, who shrugs and spreads his hands in a 'who, me?' gesture. "This is more about people you're going to be seen with on a regular basis."

Peter leans forward in his seat. "So, when *should* we let you know? The second time we meet someone? The third? How is this going to work, Eli?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out right now. Please feel free to make suggestions, though."

"Is there any point?" Will really isn't happy about this, Alicia realises. Not that she is, not that any of them are, but Will... He's grinning mirthlessly, sprawled in his chair like he hasn't a care in the world. His voice is sardonic, but with a hard edge that usually promises very bad things. She tries to catch his eye, but his gaze is firmly fixed on Eli.

Eli rolls his eyes. "Yes, there's a point. It's in everyone's best interests for us to come up with something we can all live with. So think about it. We'll have another meeting about this sometime next week. Sarah will let you know when."

"So, are we done now?"

"Yes, Will, we're done. For the moment."

"NO!" Jonas slams his hand down on the table hard, wisps of green light spilling forth from his skin to eat away at the wood. 

Everyone jumps.

Jonas pushes himself to his feet, glaring daggers at Eli. His face is such a mask of rage that it makes Eli's earlier show of temper seem like nothing more than a child's tantrum.

"We are *not* done. This is *bullshit*. I didn't sign up for any of this. All I ever wanted was to do some goddamn good! So I stuck it out when the government farmed us out to Heroes, Inc. When they brought in all those regulations about when and how we could do our jobs. I put up with it when they started filming us. When they started telling us how to dress. When they started turning us into characters. When we spent more time on goddamned PR stunts and showmanship than on actually being *heroes*. And now you want to control who I hang around with? Fuck that noise!"

To his credit -- and Alicia's surprise -- Eli actually manages to meet Jonas' gaze, even though he has to swallow visibly before he can speak.

"I just told you why it's necessary," he says, placatingly.

"And I just said fuck it!" Jonas slams his hand into the table again, the flicker of light seeming brighter, stronger. This time, his fist goes right through the sturdy wood. " Most of my team, my friends are *dead*. Diane *almost* died. Howard's in a nursing home *dribbling* after he let your boffins 'de-attune' him. Don't you think you've taken enough from us?"

"That was first generation technology," Eli protests, still keeping his voice calm and even. (Well, as calm and even as possible when faced by a furious superhuman.) "The procedure is much safer now. And anyway, that was well before my time."

"I don't care." Jonas stands up straight, his voice suddenly calm and level, his expression utterly blank.

Alicia feels an icy chill run the length of her spine. For some reason, she finds this altogether more terrifying than when he was yelling and screaming and pounding the table. Slowly, she gets to her feet.

"Maybe we should talk about this some more," she says, softly. "We might be able to work something out."

"I doubt it," Jonas says. "Anyway, I think Eli was right after all. We're done here. *I'm* done here." He turns and heads for the door, pausing on the threshold to add: "Fuck you, Eli. Fuck you, and the horse you rode in on."

The door closes behind him.

 

At first, everyone stays frozen and silent. Diane is the first to move, swearing uncharacteristically as she struggles stiffly to her feet. It's as if that breaks the spell. Will shakes his head as if to clear the cobwebs, quickly moving to offer Diane an arm to lean on. It's a measure of how distracted she is that she actually accepts.

"We have to go after him," she says. "Before he does something reckless."

"Just point the way," Will murmurs. They head out of the room.

Eli collapses in his seat, burying his head in his hands. "I guess that *could* have gone worse," he says, his voice muffled. "Although not by much."

Peter leans over and pats Eli reassuringly on the shoulder. "Diane will talk some sense into him, you'll see. He just needs to blow off a little steam."

Alicia isn't entirely convinced, but she doesn't think Eli would appreciate her saying that, so she keeps her misgivings to herself. Julius rolls his eyes, but otherwise forbears to comment.

Eli groans into his hands. "Go," he says. "Let me wallow for a while. On second thoughts, send Sarah in here. No, on third thoughts, tell her to give it five minutes and then come in." A beat later, he remembers to add: "Please."

"We will," says Alicia. They leave him to his wallowing.

After delivering his message to Sarah, Alicia pauses uncertainly, looking at Peter and Julius. "Do you think we should join the search party?"

Peter shakes his head. "No, Diane and Will can handle it."

"I agree," says Julius. "And I'm not sure us showing up mob-handed would be the best thing for him right now. Or for wherever he is at the time."

"I suppose..." says Alicia. Maybe they're right. Maybe.

Peter disrupts her train of thought by putting his arm around her waist.

"See you later, Julius," he says, politely, but firmly.

"Bye." Julius nodds affably and heads off down the corridor.

"Goodbye, Julius," adds Alicia, belatedly. She lets Peter steer her towards the elevators, her thoughts still lingering on Jonas and the disastrous briefing. "Do you really think Diane will be able to calm Jonas down?" she asks, slowly.

"Probably. After a while. He'll probably cause *some* trouble before she does, but I doubt it'll be anything Eli can't smooth over. He's good at that kind of thing. And it's probably best for Jonas to get it all out of his system sooner, rather than later.

"Hmmm," she muses, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

Peter leans in close. "Besides," he murmurs, his breath tickling her ear. "We have a wedding to plan."

A sudden flare of happiness makes her heart flutter, not quite driving away the lingering uneasiness, but at least pushing it back a little.

"I suppose we do," she says lightly. "But don't we have a team for that?"

"I thought we should put our heads together and make a list of things we want and don't want. We have more chance of getting concessions if we present a united front."

"So businesslike," Alicia laughs.

Peter shrugs. "That's how they're going to treat this if we're not careful. Just something to be packaged and marketed and sold. I just want to make sure that our big day actually has something to do with you and me. Rather than just being a big, loud, meaningless spectacle."

"I know," Alicia sighs. "I want that too."

Peter pulls her close and she snuggles into the warmth of his body. They stand there together like that, in silence, as they wait for the elevator to arrive. Alicia's mind keeps churning, worrying about Jonas and what he's going to do; thinking, thinking and *thinking* about the wedding that's going to be a three-ring circus when all she wants is a simple, quiet, *meaningful* ceremony. Strictly family and close friends only.

The idea hits her as the elevator doors close. She straightens, turning to look thoughtfully up at Peter.

He furrows his brow. "What?"

She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, startled to see that she's grinning like a madwoman. No wonder Peter looks worried. She kisses him lightly on the lips, only just managing not to let out the laughter that's suddenly bubbling up inside her.

"So, what do you think about," another kiss for punctuation, "eloping?"

 

* * * * *

 

"More trashy TV?"

Alicia is proud of the fact that she doesn't jump this time. But from the amused quirk of Kalinda's lips, the other woman is perfectly aware of just how close it was. One of these days, Alicia is going to figure out how she does it. One of these days.

But not today.

She grins a little sheepishly at Kalinda, who's lounging insouciantly in the doorway.

"It was there, and I was feeling bored and anti-social."

"Should I leave?"

"No! No, of course not. Come on in." Uncurling from her sprawl, she pats the seat next to her on the sofa encouragingly.

Kalinda nods and heads into the room, holding a bag up before her like an offering.

"I brought popcorn and ice cream." She flashes one of her rare smiles, the kind that seems to light up her face, making her eyes sparkle with mischief. "And alcohol."

"My hero!" Alicia gets to her feet, struck with the sudden, inexplicable urge to give the other woman a hug. (Not that she does, of course. It's known that Kalinda Doesn't Do Hugs. But Alicia wants to, and not just for the much-appreciated supplies.) "I'll deal with the ice cream and popcorn. You can sort out the alcohol."

The two of them bustle around the kitchen. Wihout needing to speak, they effortlessly manage the intricate choreography necessary for more than one person to negotiate the small space without collisions. Alicia can already feel herself starting to relax, the knot in her stomach loosening in a way that even solitude, a comfy sofa and the trashiest of trashy TV hadn't been able to manage.

Who knew that it was possible to feel antisocial and lonely at the same time?

Eli's little surprise party left her on edge, nerves raw and jangling. She knows the rest of the team would sympathise with her -- off-camera, at least -- but, while she generally enjoys their company, it comes with too much baggage for her to find it truly effortless. Right now, she just doesn't have the energy.

Hanging around with Kalinda... It's different. Simpler. Kalinda doesn't ask anything of her. She's just there: a quiet, comforting presence.

A friend.

Her best friend.

(But why does that thought suddenly feel like its own fairground mirror reflection? Like when you say your name over and over and over and over again until it feels alien and strange? Like the ground beneath her feet has shifted where it should be solid and immutable?)

(It's probably just her frazzled nerves. Everything feels off-kilter right now.)

Alicia and Kalinda settle themselves on the sofa, snacks and drinks close to hand. Kalinda studies the TV, one eyebrow raised.

"So, what are we watching?"

"I think it's called 'Don't Tell the Bride'. They take a bunch of engaged couples, give the groom a budget and a deadline -- usually a couple of weeks, I think -- and have him arrange the wedding."

"What does the bride do?"

"Usually go to stay with friends or family while she waits to see what her beloved fiance will come up with. They're not allowed to see each other in the run up to the wedding."

Kalinda blinks. "She doesn't get a say?"

Alicia shakes her head, shifting around on the sofa to make herself comfortable. "Nope. It's all him. The idea is that he's supposed to know her well enough to arrange something that she'll like." She shrugs. "In reality, the programme-makers are hoping that the bride will hate it." Her voice tuns sardonic. "It makes for much more dramatic television that way."

"Of course." Kalinda considers for a moment. "What about the dress?"

"He chooses that, too. But there is a little flexibilty. If she absolutely hates it, she can call him and plead to have some alterations made."

"Oh. That's..." Kalinda frowns a little, hunting for the right word and eventually settling on: "Special."

"Yeah, isn't it awful?" Alicia grins hugely, reaching for the remote control so she can unpause the programme. "It's like a slow-motion trainwreck. I just can't look away."

Kalinda shakes her head. "Good job I brought this, then." She brandishes the bottle of what Alicia belatedly realises is tequila. "I think we're going to need it. I certainly am."

 

"He isn't..." Kalinda is leaning forward, staring wide-eyed at the screen. She doesn't even seem to notice that Alicia is watching her, not the television. She catches her lower lip between her teeth, apparently caught up in the unfolding disaster. "He wouldn't..." She groans. "Oh, he didn't!" She turns quickly, freezing as she meets Alicia's amused gaze. "What?"

Alicia shakes her head. "It's just so *cute* how into this you are."

"Look who's talking. Just how many episodes do you have queued up on the TiVo, anyway?"

"Umm, I don't know." Alicia's cheeks flare with heat. "Some."

"Some," Kalinda echoes, disbelievingly. "Uhuh. Queued up next to 'America's Next Top Model', I'll bet." Alicia starts to protest -- there can't be more than a couple of episodes of ANTM on there -- but Kalinda carries on speaking over her. "Anyway, I don't do 'cute'." She sounds utterly disgusted by the very idea.

Alicia grins widely, amusement pushing embarrassment aside. "Yes, you do. You were just then."

"You're delusional," Kalinda says decisively. "Or drunk."

"Ha! Not likely. I'm a superhero, don't you know. It takes a *lot* to get me drunk. I could certainly drink you and your puny mortal liver right under the table."

Kalinda... smiles, quirking an eyebrow as she leans forward, into Alicia's space. "Is that a challenge?" she breathes, so close that Alicia can feel hot breath against her lips. For some reason, her cheeks flush again.

"Umm..." Alarm bells start to ring in her mind, but there's no way she's going to back down now, so: "Yes. Yes, it is."

"You're on." For a brief, mad, moment, Alicia thinks that Kalinda is going to lean forward and... What? But instead, she sits back on her side of the sofa, reaching down to snag the bottle of tequila. "Hold out your glass," she orders.

"So, how are we going to do this?" Alicia wonders as Kalinda fills her glass to the brim. "Just do shots until one of us falls over?"

"No, that's boring." Kalinda fills her own glass and sets the bottle down on the coffee table. She doesn't bother to put the cap back on. "I have a much better idea..."

 

Later, the two of them are slumped onto the sofa, practically leaning against each other for support. Alicia *thinks* Kalinda is more far gone than her, but it's hard to tell through the other woman's composure. Although, the fact that she can keep up the mask even after putting away... however many shots it's been... is pretty damned impressive in and of itself. Alicia let hers slip hours ago. Not that she really tends to keep it on when it's just the two of them.

(Which is kind of odd, when she thinks about it. When she really, really thinks about it. Because even with Peter...)

(No. No, she is nowhere *near* drunk enough for this train of thought.)

A beanansidhe-like shriek blares out from the television, followed by: "What. Is. That?!"

"Uh-oh," murmurs Kalinda.

"Do you think she hates the dress?" Alicia asks, sarcastically.

"I think she hates the dress," Kalinda agrees. "And you know what that means..."

Alicia holds out her glass for a refill. "Cheers!"

"Cheers," Kalinda echoes.

They both knock back their shots.

"It's funny," Alicia muses, swivelling around so she can hang her legs over the edge of the sofa. "This programme seems much more bearable as a drinking game. She wriggles around a little, trying to find a way she can sprawl comfortably without laying across Kalinda's lap. After a couple of minutes of writhing, Kalinda sighs and grabs a cushion, tucking it in behind Alicia's back.

"There. Lean back against me."

Alicia does so. "Thanks." She wriggles around a little more, ending up with her head resting against Kalinda's shoulder. "That's surprisingly comfortable."

"I have my uses," Kalinda murmurs.

"Yep." Alicia nods enthusiastically. "You're very useful to have around." And suddenly, without warning, there are words bubbling up into her throat, spilling forth from her lips. Words she wasn't intending to say, but now couldn't keep back if she tried. "I really like having you around, Kalinda. I don't... I don't have many friends. Not close friends. Not people I can just... be myself with. I feel comfortable with you. You don't want anything from me. You don't expect anything. And you've helped me so much. I can't even tell you how grateful I am for everything you've done for me. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Her words seem to fall heavily into the air. She can imagine them clunking and clattering to the ground like lead weights. Self-consciousness catches up with her, making her cheeks burn yet again, this time with mortification.

'Oh my god,' she thinks, horrified, fighting the urge to curl up into a ball and pull a cushion over her head. Maybe Kalinda didn't hear her. Maybe she was engrossed in the TV. Maybe she's fallen asleep. Maybe there's some completely harmless reason why the silence stretches and stretches and Kalinda isn't saying a single word in response to her rambling... confession?

All of a sudden, it's like she's back in high school again. Like she's just blurted out 'I-think-you're-cool-will-you-go-out-with-me' to her super-hot crush. Her pulse is pounding in her ears, the walls are closing in, and it's so stifling, so hard to breathe.

(It's like she's standing on the brink of something, some realisation.)

Kalinda clears her throat. Alicia holds her breath. Kalinda sighs softly, leaning her head against Alicia's.

"There's something I have to tell you..."


	4. Commencement

Title Card:

The blurred, black and white image crackles and pops. The phrase 'Ministry of Defense' swims briefly into view, shortly followed by something largely unreadable (apart from a word that could be 'clearance'), and then the writing disappears. After a couple of seconds, the image finally stabilises, sharpening into a simple rectangle of black (or dark-grey) slate. The hand of the person holding it is clearly visible at the edge of the screen.

Words are written on the slate in chalk, in a careful, angular hand.

Project: Prometheus Orange (Ref: PO-28071-513-72-V)

Series: TrHuLTE-5-17-B

Record Type/Number: Case study/#003-016

Subject(s): "Epsilon Dove" (PO/S#4.012/ED/M-PR/MM[El-W])

Principal Investigator: Professor Sir Jonathan Lethbrige-Shaw

Site: Porton Down

Date: 24/08/1943

After about half a minute or so -- long enough to read all the information there and note down the relevant parts, with just enough time left over to double-check that it was copied down correctly -- the person holding the slate steps aside to reveal a large, cluttered laboratory.

There are benches and worktables crammed in anywhere and any which way they'll fit (even in a few places where there isn't really enough space for them), and every available surface is covered with equipment. It's a peculiar mix of glassware and wiring, microscopes and oscilloscopes, electrodes and spectrophotometers, plus all manner of objects and machines whose function isn't immediately apparent. There's even a Jacob's ladder in the corner, crackling away merrily to itself. It's as if someone has taken the contents of several different life science, chemistry, physics and electronics laboratories, plus a few other miscellaneous odds and ends, and simply crammed them all together into this room.

It would certainly explain the clutter.

White-coated figures mill around the lab, checking readings, prodding at pieces of equipment, tightening things, muttering intently together and generally looking very busy. (One figure even seems to be purposefully studying the Jacob's ladder.) There's an air of suppressed excitement in the room, and lots of covert glances are directed towards one figure in particular, a clipboard-bearing man now stepping briskly up to the camera.

This man appears to be in his late fifties. He is tall, with a rigidly upright posture that makes him seem all the taller. His hair is neatly trimmed and his white coat is starch-stiff, with knife-edge creases. His expression is reserved, even a little stiff, and his gaze is piercing. When he looks into the camera, it's almost as if he's making eye contact with the viewer.

"Good morning." If his English accent was any more cut-glass, it would literally cut glass. "I am Professor Lethbridge-Shaw." He turns to look to the side, nodding at someone out of frame. "If you would please come and look into the camera."

A younger man strides into view, the regularity of his steps marred by the drag of his right leg, just as the skin of his right cheek is marred by an angry, ugly scar. He halts a foot or so from the professor, turning smartly on his heel to stare directly into the camera. His hand twitches as if he's about to salute, but he keeps it down by his side. He isn't in uniform, but he might as well be. Everything about him says 'military'. Like the professor, he is very neatly turned out, with short hair and crisply pressed clothes. Unlike the professor, he isn't wearing a lab coat.

"Thank you," says Professor Lethbridge-Shaw. He turns to address the camera again. "This is subject 'Epsilon Dove', or 'ED'. It is sixteen days since ED underwent the Prometheus Orange Protocol." He looks towards the other man. "How are you feeling today, ED?"

"Perfectly fine, Sir." Again that twitch of the hand, that almost-salute, and then the slightest of frowns flits across his features. "Professor." The word has the air of a correction. "Thank you, Professor." The flattened vowels and softened consonants of Yorkshire are evident in this man's speech.

"Good; very good." Professor Lethbridge-Shaw smiles thinly. "But lets see if we can quantify that a little more scientifically, shall we?"

 

The professor leads ED over to one of the benches, where a flock of white-coated scientists descend to weigh, measure, poke, prod at and question him. Various sensors are attached to his skin. He is made to run on a treadmill, to do various physical exercises, to undergo various tests of manual and mental dexterity. His temperature is taken, his heart rate and blood pressure recorded. Samples of his blood and hair are taken and immediately whisked away to another part of the lab by other white-coated figures, presumably so they can subject these pieces of him to more detailed analysis. In short, he is subjected to an extraordinarily thorough physical and mental examination, which he endures with the good grace of discipline and familiarity. The whole procedure takes about an hour.

The professor doesn't administer any of the tests, merely observing and making notes on his clipboard. Occasionally he nods to himself and, even more rarely, calls over one of the other scientists to have a few quiet words with them. When the tests are complete, he turns to the camera and notes that:

"As we can see, ED is in good health, barring his previous injuries. We will, of course, be running proper analyses on our data, but initial signs are that the Prometheus Orange Protocol itself does not have any adverse effects on its subjects. As for its other effects..." Again, that thin smile. "Now we come to the second part of our assessment."

The professor, ED and a gaggle of scientists head over to another part of the room. The camera follows them, the picture jerking a little with the movement. At the professor's gesture, ED settles into a reclining chair, not unlike the kind found in a barber's, or a dentist's. Almost as soon as he's swung his feet up into the metal stirrups, two men swoop down to strap him in and adjust the chair's orientation and height. When this is done, they step aside so another two scientists can adorn ED with all manner of sensors and devices: a net of electrodes placed over his scalp, wires taped to his chest and wrists, a blood pressure cuff wrapped around one arm. Yet more scientists check on the devices and machines at the other end of the wires, seeming satisfied by the various readouts.

The whole process takes place in a matter of minutes; a well-choreographed dance where everyone has their part down to perfection. Soon, everyone is standing back, some stationed by various machines, some with lab books and pens poised, others simply watching. There is an exchange of eager glances, a muted chorus of whispers that fades to silence when Professor Lethbridge-Shaw clears his throat. He turns to face the camera.

"As we have demonstrated on the previous recordings, ED is one of the subjects whose 'para-abilities' -- as we have come to term them -- have been successfully activated by the Prometheus Orange Protocol. So far, we have established that his para-abilities can be broadly categorised as matter manipulation, elemental subtype. More specifically, he seems to have an affinity for water. Today, we intend to determine precisely what he's capable of." Gesturing the cameraman forward, he steps off to the side. "When you're ready, ED, please proceed as we discussed."

ED nods. "Yes, Professor."

Closing his eyes, he takes a few deep, even breaths, counting down aloud from ten. On zero, he opens his eyes again and focuses his attention on the bowls of water. His eyes narrow, and the water in the first bowl -- the one with the lowest level -- starts to swirl and bubble. Just a little at first, but then more and more, until it's almost slopping over the sides of the container. When this happens, he starts counting again, this time from one to ten. His voice starts to shake a little as he gets to nine, his fists clenching on the arms of the chair. There's obvious relief in his voice when he reaches ten, and he exhales deeply as the water stills once more.

"Good," nods the professor. "And now the next?"

ED repeats the process with all of the containers. Each one contains more water than the one before it, and each one seems to require greater and great exertion on his part. He's visibly sweating and tense by the time he reaches the count of ten on the final bowl, and his exhale on the release is hoarse and ragged.

"Excellent work, ED," notes the professor, making some notes on his clipboard.

"Thank you, Sir," pants ED, sagging limply in the chair. He doesn't even correct himself this time.

"Time for a rest, I think." Professor Lethbridge-Shaw nods to a woman dressed in a nurse's uniform, who bustles over to tend to ED. One of the white-coated men releases the restraints on the test subject's wrists and torso so he can accept the glass of water the nurse holds out to him. He finishes it in one go. "We'll resume in fifteen minutes," the professor adds.

He nods at the cameraman.

The screen goes dark.

 

* * * * *

 

'The Chicago Tribune', a Chicago newspaper, paper version:

Corrosion Man: Superhero, Philanthropist

Today, Corrosion Man announced that he would be joining his team-mate Lady Liberty as a patron of 'Universal Education', a charity dedicated to ensuring that girls all over the world have equal and fair access to education. Dr Sharifa Khalil, the head of the charity, said: "It was a little unexpected, but it's fantastic news. Having two superheroes on board will really help to raise our profile."

 

(Cute. Very cute. At least the public seems to be broadly in favour, and we can definitely play up the philanropist angle. Hell, I've sold stories with less truth in them then that. Unfortunately, this is just his opening move. Hurricane drills, people. Noses to the wind... Don't look at me like that, Sarah. That's a perfectly cromulent metaphor.)

 

'Chicago Sun Times', a Chicago newspaper, online edition:

Arabian Nights: Corrosion Man shows the House of Saud how to party

The phrase 'embassy party', might conjure up images of a refined, sophisticated affair. Not so last night's celebration at the Saudi embassy in Washington, held in honour of visiting members of that country's royal family. It's not clear whether Chicago's famously outspoken superhero was actually invited, or if he just gatecrashed, but he certainly made an impression on the guests. Especially the ladies. It's rumoured that he was seen leaving -- in the small hours of the morning -- in the company of not one, not two, but three sloe-eyed beauties...

 

(Stay classy, Jonas. Could be worse, I suppose. We'll focus on the playboyism -- that is too a word! -- and minimise the Saudi angle. Get me the numbers as soon as we have them.)

 

'SuperChic', a lifestyle and entertainment blog focusing on Chicago's superheroes:

Corrosion Man Meltdown?

Corrosion Man has never been the shy and retiring type, but he seems to be partying hard, even for him. Every night a different club, pub or party. Sometimes several in one night! Not just high-class shindigs like last week's embassy do, either. I have it on good authority that he's been hitting a fair number of, shall we say, less salubrious establishments. That's 'real dives' to you and me.

Despite all his partying, however, Corrosion Man doesn't seem to be in the best of moods at the moment. One reporter found this out the hard way when she tried to ask him some questions as he was leaving yet another club last night. I hope that wasn't her best camera she was carrying... See below for exclusive footage of the incident.

 

(Damnit, Jonas! Whatever you do, you do *not* alienate members of the press. And you sure as shit don't flip out with your fucking *powers*! Okay. Thinking. Let's give him one more chance to come in of his own accord. Sarah, try every phone number, e-mail address and physical address we have. I know he's moving around, but we'll hopefully be able to get through to him. In both senses.)

 

* * * * *

'Round Table,' a current affairs discussion programme, hosted by Franklin James:

The television set has been set up to resemble a conference room, with the titular piece of furniture taking pride of place in the centre. A group of serious-looking, mostly smartly-dressed men and women are seated around it. The camera pans over these to focus on the man currently speaking; a soberly-dressed gentleman of middle years with what seems to be a permanently furrowed brow. His nameplate reads Dr Edward Kimball.

"I must admit, I find it a little worrying that such a group exists at all, let alone that someone as, ah, infamously volatile as Corrosion Man as been publicly associating with them. Let's be clear: for someone in his position, that is effectively an endorsement."

"I'm not sure I agree, Dr Kimball" says a T-shirt and jeans clad man, shifting in his seat. His name is Mr David West. "The thing we have to remember is that these so-called 'superheroes' are also private citizens. Who they hang around with on their own time is surely their own business."

"Even if they hang around with terrorists?" Dr Kimball retorts sharply.

"Hey, you can't-"

"I would just like to point out," interjects the host, swiftly, "that there is no evidence to suggest that the "Freedom To" organisation are, in fact, terrorists."

Dr Kimball shoots him a withering look. "They've put out press statements in support of a number of terrorist actions. They are a self-proclaimed anarchist organisation -- if that isn't a contradiction in terms -- whose stated goal is to tear down the establishment by, and I quote: 'any means necessary'. Even if there's no *evidence* of them carrying out terrorist activities directly, they certainly support and encourage such activities."

"I think we're getting a little side-tracked from a larger issue here," observes a woman in a navy trouser-suit, identified as Professor Susan Harper. "Are metahumans actually private citizens? After all, many of them could quite legitimately be classed as living weapons of mass destruction. Perhaps they *should* be subject to tighter restrictions than the average citizen." She gives a tight smile. "There's a reason why we don't permit private citizens to own nuclear devices."

"With respect, Susan," says Mr West, not sounding very respectful at all. "Don't think you're being a little alarmist?"

"With respect, *Mr West*: no, I do not."

 

(Okay, boys and girls, pay attention. They go on to say a lot of other stuff, much of it dressed up in academic jargon, legalese and precedent this, that and the other. But this bit, right here, is the bit we should be worried about. The bit where they're talking about superheroes as a threat. As a danger. If we don't nip this in the bud right now, the public will start thinking of them as a threat. And then their tiny minds will start to amble towards dangerous ideas like 'regulation' and 'control.

That would be a Bad Thing. Because the people that would be doing the regulating? The people who would be taking control? They wouldn't be Heroes, Inc.

It wouldn't be *us*.

I shouldn't have to remind you that a lot of people were... unhappy... when the Enhanced Personnel programme was farmed out to private enterprise. And don't even get me started on the people who would prefer it if it was simply cancelled altogether. Unfortunately, both groups of people are not without influence where it counts and, like sharks, they can smell blood in the water from miles away.

Believe me, thanks to Jonas' antics, we *are* bleeding right now.

So. Time for some damage limitation.

Ideas?)

 

* * * * *

Video footage posted on YouTube by user DaisyGirl_258:

"-you getting this, Jess? Hurry up!" The speaker is female and young, perhaps adolescent. The point of view jerks upwards, from pavement to sky in one swift move, then settles slowly back down, focusing on a green-haired girl wearing a denim jacket liberally adorned with badges. "Not *me*," she says, exasperatedly, revealing herself to be speaker. "There!" She points somewhere off camera. "Quick, before he goes!"

"Are you sure it's him?" The other speaker, Jess -- also young and female -- sounds doubtful, but she dutifully moves the camera to focus on a man standing in front of a building across the busy street. He's wearing a heavy coat, despite the fact that everyone else who wanders through the shot seems to be dressed for warmer weather.

"I *think* so... Yes! Yes, it's him. I'm positive. That's Corrosion Man! Get a close-up."

The camera zooms in on the man's face, revealing that it does, indeed, appear to be Corrosion Man. He currently seems to be frowning at the building in front of him.

"What's he doing?" wonders Jess.

"I'm not sure. I guess he could have an appointment or something, maybe. Do you know what that building is?"

"No idea. Some kind of corporate headquarters, maybe?"

"Do you think we should go over there?"

"I don't-"

Before Jess finishes her sentence, Corrosion Man abruptly yanks off his coat to reveal his familiar green and black costume. He tosses the coat aside, disintegrating it without even looking, all his attention on the building in front of him. He seems to be muttering furiously to himself. Passersby start to pay attention.

"Maybe we should stay over here," she finishes.

Her friend is silent for a few moments. "I wonder if this is some kind of... publicity stunt?" she offers. But she sounds just as nervous as Jess. Neither girl makes any move to cross the street. They continue to watch.

Corrosion Man shakes his head, nods, and takes a deep breath. Legs braced, he raises his hands in front of him. They start to glow with a brilliant, bilious green light.

"Uh, Gwen?" Jess' voice is low, almost a whisper. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"Just keep filming." Gwen also speaks in a hushed voice.

For the next minute or so, Corrosion Man just stands there, glowing, shoulders heaving as if he's panting for breath. Passersby point and stare. Many of them have their phones out, taking pictures, filming, or even just talking on them. No one makes any attempt to approach him.

"I wonder what-"

Without warning, light flares outwards, crashing into the building's facade like a tidal wave. And when it subsides, everything it touched -- glass, steel, stone; everything -- simply isn't there any more.

The rest of Gwen's sentence becomes a strangled squeak.

The whole scene seems frozen, somehow, like the world itself is in shock.

And then the screaming starts.

 

(...

...

...

Oh.

Fuck.

...

Jonas, what have you done?)

 

* * * * *

 

'Don't Read the Comments', a collection of the best, the worst, and the best of the worst:

"CORROSION MAN IS A DICK!!!1! hes supposed to B a hero he isnt supposed to destroy things n hurt peple and stuff!!! HEROS ARENT SUPPOSED TO BE DICKS!!!!!!" -- CorrosionFan431

 

(I have no words.)

 

* * * * *

 

It's dark in Eli's office.

The fact registers on his awareness, dimly, distantly, but he can't seem to make himself care enough to do anything about it. All he can do is sit there, staring blindly at a piece of paper that it's far too dark for him to actually see. It's good quality paper; thick and heavy, embossed with a seal that he could feel if he ran his fingers over its surface.

He doesn't.

Why bother? Everything on that paper is imprinted on his mind as if stamped there with a branding iron. He couldn't forget it if he tried.

He should move, he knows. Get up, put the light on. Start making plans, start making calls. Try to figure out a way around this.

That's what he's good at, isn't it?

Isn't it?

But all of that just seems like too much effort right now.

So he just sits. In the dark. Alone.

'This is pathetic,' he thinks, but even that thought is merely a pale echo of his usual bile and vitriol. '*I'm* pathetic.' Stronger, but not enough. Not enough to get him moving. 'I have to do something.'

There. A spark. Something, at least.

'They need me.'

The spark flares, catches.

'If those fuckers upstairs think I'm just going to roll over and take this, they've got another think coming. I am *not* going to give up without a fight!'

Ignition.

"Motherfucker!" he exclaims aloud.

Surging to his feet, Eli crosses his office and flicks the overhead light on, then practically bounds over to his phone, snatching up the handset with enough force that the cradle goes skittering over his desk, almost ending up on the floor. He takes a deep breath, then another one, and then he smiles in feral, predatory way. Still smiling, he starts to dial.

'Okay, bitches, let's dance.'

 

* * * * *

 

Alicia blinks owlishly as Kalinda's words sink in. Something to tell her. Kalinda has something to tell her.

Suddenly, she wants to be sober for this.

Barely even needing to think about it, she stops suppressing her super-healing, letting it cleanse the alcohol from her system. Wiith a brief pang -- it's kind of nice leaning against Kalinda like this, the other woman's head resting on hers; it feels oddly... right -- she sits up, turning around so she can actually see Kalinda's face.

"What is it?" she asks softly.

Kalinda takes a breath, then studies her, frowning a little. "Did you just sober yourself up?"

Alicia shrugs. "Well, yes. It kind of sounded like we were moving on from the drinking contest." She raises her eyebrows enquiringly, giving Kalinda an opening, but the other woman doesn't take it. "What did you want to tell me?"

Kalinda sets her glass aside. Like Alicia, she sits up straight. Unlike Alicia, she keeps her gaze fixed somewhere off in the distance. Her expression is bland; meaningless.

"Kalinda?" Alicia is starting to worry. If Kalinda is this rattled, whatever she has to say... It's going to be bad. Alicia's mind immediately starts going through possibilities, seizing upon one that makes her heart seize and her breath catch in her throat. Is Kalinda going to say that they can't do this anymore?

That they can't be friends any more?

No, that can't be it. It can't.. She *wouldn't*. Alicia finds herself marshalling arguments against it, reasons why it just makes *sense* for them to continue as they have been.

Reasons why she just can't lose this... this... lose what they have.

(Which is what, exactly? What is it that she's so panicked at the thought of losing?)

"Do you remember when you asked me why I joined Heroes, Inc?" Kalinda asks, softly. So softly, in fact, that Alicia has to strain to make out the words.

"Umm, vaguely," she replies, a little nonplussed. "You said something about needing a job, and then you changed the subject. Repeatedly."

Kalinda actually smiles at that, the expression a touch rueful. "Yes, well." She sighs quietly, the merest exhalation of breath, and then turns to face Alicia. "I may not have been... entirely truthful about my reasons."

Alicia blinks. For a moment, all she can feel is relief -- Kalinda isn't breaking off their friendship, isn't saying they can't spend time like this anymore -- but then puzzlement starts to take over.

"Okaaay," she says, slowly, pulling her thoughts into some semblance of order. "So, what *is* the truth?"

Kalinda edges forward a little on the sofa. Their knees touch, making Alicia jump a little. Kalinda doesn't seem to notice. All her attention seems to be on Alicia's face.

"I work for..." she grimaces, "well, it's not really important who I work for." Alicia starts to protest, but Kalinda doesn't stop, talking right over her objections. "There've been rumours about Heroes, Inc. Unauthorised experiments on metahumans. Superhumans, if you prefer. People like you."

Alicia's stomach clenches. "What kind of experiments?" Somewhere in the back of her mind, a chorus of whispers starts up. Three words, repeated over and over again: 'Owen was right. Owen was right. Owen was right.' Thoughts she's managed to deny all this time, telling herself that her brother's paranoia was catching, that's all, that there was no rational basis for fear...

Kalinda shrugs. "Details have been lacking. Best guess? Tinkering with the enhancement protocol, trying to increase efficiency and potency. Reduce reliance on the generators, perhaps."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Can't go into details, I'm afraid. All I can say is that there are reasons, good reasons, why it's a bad idea. Not to mention highly illegal."

Alicia's mind is racing, to fit what Kalinda's telling her into some sort of logical framework. "You're government," she whispers, because that's the only thing that makes sense of all this. The only thing that makes *Kalinda* make sense. Her skills, her self-control; the things she knows. "You're a government agent, aren't you?"

Kalinda's lips quirk in a wry smile. "You might very well think that; I couldn't possibly comment." Her expression turns serious again, and she suddenly leans forward, taking Alicia's hands in hers. (Alicia's heart skips a beat, but it must be due to the shock of these revelations.) "I would tell you more if I could." And the regret in her face and voice is so strong, so open, that Alicia can't help but believe it. Believe her. (Believe in her.) "But I'm breaking all kinds of rules already, just telling you this much."

"Why are you telling me?" Alicia didn't know she was going to ask the question until she does, but once the words are out there she can't believe she didn't think of it sooner. "I assume you're not supposed to break your cover..."

"Not exactly." Kalinda squeezes Alicia's hands briefly, and then lets go, leaving Alicia feeling oddly abandoned as she sits back again. "Trouble is, I've gotten about as far as I can without inside help. There are places I can't go, questions I can't ask without raising suspicion."

"And you think I can?"

"Your team trusts you. They'll answer questions about medical procedures and tests from you that they wouldn't from me. And if they do get suspicious, they'll believe you if you say you're curious. Maybe read something on the internet and got worried." Kalinda shoots Alicia a level look. "Maybe just trying to calm your brother down."

Alicia doesn't even have to think about slamming her mask back into place. It just happens, instinctively. (Even though a part of her hurts at the fact that she's doing this with Kalinda.) "My brother?" she asks, lightly. "He's a math professor."

Kalinda holds Alicia's gaze. "And a conspiracy theorist," she counters. "He's been quiet lately, but I'm sure your team-mates remember some of his earlier outbursts." A smile of reluctant admiration tugs at her lips. "He's quite observant, your brother. Good at spotting patterns." She pauses. Considers. "Although you might want to warn him he's not as far below the radar as he wants to believe."

"You checked up on Owen?"

A brief shrug. "Let's just say I checked up on the people checking up on him."

"Why?"

Kalinda looks away, then back again. When she speaks, Alicia has the sense that she's picking her words very carefully. "Let's just say, it's partly thanks to his digging that it was decided this was worth investigating."

"Is he in danger?" Alicia half-gets up, then hesitates. "Should I go and warn him?"

Kalinda puts a hand out, her tone reassuring. "He's fine for the moment," she says quickly. "And I've taken... steps... to ensure that he's protected."

"Oh." Alicia sinks down again onto the sofa. "Thank you." Although she sounds calm and collected, inside she's reeling. Kalinda as a government spook? (Oddly, not the hardest part of all this to accept.) Illegal experiments? Kalinda needs her help? Kalinda needs her help. "What do you need from me?"

"You'll help?" Kalinda sounds oddly uncertain. It sounds wrong on her. She's always seemed so sure of herself, and of everything else.

Alicia can't help it. She shoots Kalinda a Look. "Of *course* I'll help," she says dryly, her tone saying that Kalinda is being thoroughly silly for even having to ask. "You've just told me that someone's potentially carrying out illegal medical experiments on me and my friends. It's in my best interest to help." She shrugs. "And besides: you asked."

"Oh. Good." Kalinda still sounds a little unsure, but then she clears her throat and pulls herself up determinedly. "Good. So. What I need from you primarily is information. All the medical procedures you've undergone, complete with dates and locations. The same from all the rest of the team, if you can get it without raising too much suspicion. Anything else that seems at all relevant; anything you might have overheard or seen accidentally. There's no telling what might be important."

"Can't you get the medical stuff from our files?" Alicia wants to know.

Kalinda sighs. "There is a lot of information in there and, believe it or not, they don't tend to flag the less than legal stuff. If they even put it in there. And the more times I hack the system, the greater the risk of getting caught. It'll make my life much easier if I know when and where to look."

"Okay, I can do that." Alicia nods decisively, and then frowns. "Although I can't believe that Eli would condone the conducting of illegal experiments on hius team. He has his faults -- lord knows he has his faults -- but he does care about us. In his own way."

Although, Alicia is a little startled to realise, she doesn't doubt what Kalinda's told her at all. If Kalinda says she believes someone may conducting secret experiments, well then, she must have good reasons to believe it.

And Alicia trusts those reasons.

She trusts Kalinda.

That's all there is to it.

(Really? *All* there is?)

*All* there is to it.

"As much as Eli likes to believe he's the man in charge," Kalinda says, smiling ruefully, "He doesn't actually run Heroes, Inc. The people above him? You trust them too?"

"I guess not."

Much as she would like to argue, Alicia knows that Kalinda's right. When it comes down to it, Alicia and the rest of the team are an investment. A very, very expensive investment. And if the powers that be get wind of a way to improve the profit to cost ratio... As long as they think they won't get caught, legality -- or the lack thereof -- will be no object.

"So, it's my job to figure out whether there's any truth to the rumours." Kalinda sighs. "Honestly, I'm hoping there isn't. But I get the feeling that none of us are quite that lucky."

Alicia starts to reply, then freezes as a thought occurs to her. "What if they're listening right now?" she whispers, trying to look around without being obvious about it.

Kalinda shakes her head. "They're not," she says, decisively.

"But how can you be sure?" Alicia hisses between her teeth. "If they are conducting secret experiments, who's to say they're not spying on us around the clock?"

"Maybe they are, but I know they're not spying on us right now because I made certain of it." Kalinda reaches into her pocket and pulls out something that looks a little like a smart phone with extra buttons and lights, briefly showing it to Alicia before tucking it away once more.

"Oh." Alicia frowns. "Well, *were* they spying on me?"

"Not as far as I can tell." Kalinda shrugs. "Given that Will zaps every bug he finds -- and he's gotten very good at finding them -- they probably figure it isn't worth it. Anyway, I always sweep your rooms whenever I'm in here and I haven't found anything recently. I'll keep checking, though."

"Oh," Alicia says, again. "I guess that's reassuring." It is reassuring to know that Kalinda's looking out for her. Even if the fact that it's necessary in the first place is somewhat alarming.

For the sake of her own sanity, Alicia resolves not to worry about it.

"So, since we're not being spied on right now, do you want to go ahead and ask me your questions?"

For a brief moment, Kalinda has the oddest expression on her face, but by the time Alicia finishes speaking the other woman is perfectly composed again.

(Alicia wonders what on earth Kalinda *thought* she was going to suggest they do with their confirmed privacy but, on reflection, she doesn't feel brave enough to ask.)

"Sure," she says, taking out her familiar orange notebook and a pen. "Let's start with your last check-up..."

 

* * * * *

 

From: bigbird_319@hotmail.com  
To: snuffleupagus_813@hotmail.com

Hey,

It's been a while. Want to catch up?

A

 

From: snuffleupagus_813@hotmail.com  
To: bigbird_319@hotmail.com

Yeah, that'd be great. Can you remember where I put that thing that time?

 

From: bigbird_319@hotmail.com  
To: snuffleupagus_813@hotmail.com

I really don't think a 'Hackers' reference is a foolproof identity challenge. Other people have seen that movie, you know, FruitLoop.

And these e-mail addresses are stupid.

 

From: snuffleupagus_813@hotmail.com  
To: bigbird_319@hotmail.com

Your face is stupid.

The important thing is that these addresses are anonymous.

And it's not about giving the right answer. It's about how you phrase it. Who else but you would write Hackers in quotation marks? And it's not like anyone else will know that you called me FruitLoop for a week after I said I thought CerealKiller was a cool handle.

 

From: bigbird_319@hotmail.com  
To: snuffleupagus_813@hotmail.com

My face is not stupid! Your face is stupid. At least tell me you've given up on the soul patch.

And if anyone is snooping this, they will know now.

By the way, speaking of snooping, you're being watched.

 

From: snuffleupagus_813@hotmail.com  
To: bigbird_319@hotmail.com

I *know* I'm being watched. The question is: how do you?

 

From: bigbird_319@hotmail.com  
To: snuffleupagus_813@hotmail.com

Someone told me. It's kind of why I got in touch. There's something I need to tell you. And ask you, for that matter. Do you want to do it over e-mail, or is there a better way? Do you think you can shake your watchers?

And I can't help but notice you didn't answer about the soul patch.

 

From: snuffleupagus_813@hotmail.com  
To: bigbird_319@hotmail.com

Do I think I can shake my watchers? Have you forgotten who you're talking to? Of *course* I can shake my watchers! (Imagine me saying that in a very offended voice. *Very* offended. And glaring. Let's not forget the intimidating glare.)

Probably best to meet up in person. I'll send you details. What's your flight speed? Never mind, got it. Just make sure you're not followed or bugged or something.

 

From: bigbird_319@hotmail.com  
To: snuffleupagus_813@hotmail.com

Intimidating. Yes. That's exactly the word I would use. Imagine me *not* quaking in my stylish-yet-affordable boots.

Why did you want to know my flight speed? Why do you already know my flight speed?

No, forget it. I don't want to know.

Just let me know when and where to meet you. I'll try to make sure I'm not followed, or bugged, or tagged, or whatever.

See you soon.

A

PS -- Miss you.

 

From: snuffleupagus_813@hotmail.com  
To: bigbird_319@hotmail.com

Miss you too. I'll be in touch soon.

O

PS -- Points for the Buffy reference

 

* * * * *

 

Excerpt from Document 457-AF15-829-B, 'The Prometheus Accords' (Version 1.0, 1991):

Section 5, Subsection 1A

Signatories to this document must not use the Prometheus Protocol variant dubbed 'Prometheus Black', either in its entirety or in part, whether within their borders/territories/holdings or elsewhere.

Section 5, Subsection 1B

Signatories to this document must not commission the use of the Prometheus Protocol variant dubbed 'Prometheus Black', or otherwise be responsible for its use, either in its entirety or in part, whether within their borders/territories/holdings or elsewhere.

Section 5, Subsection 2A

Signatories to this document must not undertake any of the precursor steps necessary for the commencement of Prometheus Black, whether within their borders/territories/holdings or elsewhere.

Section 5, Subsection 2B

Signatories to this document must not commission the undertaking of any of the precursor steps necessary for the commencement of Prometheus Black, or otherwise be responsible for any such undertakings, whether within their borders/territories or elsewhere.

Section 5, Subsection 3A

Signatories to this document must police their own territories for signs that the Prometheus Black protocol, or any of its necessary precursor steps, are being performed.

Section 5, Subsection 3B

Signatories must, upon discovering any signs that work on the Prometheus Black protocol or any of its necessary precursor steps is being conducted within their borders/territories/holdings, take steps to stop such work.

Section 5, Subsection 3C

Signatories must, upon discovering any signs that work on the Prometheus Black protocol or any of its necessary precursor steps is being conducted within their borders/territories/holdings, inform the Prometheus Accord Committee immediately, or as soon as they are able.

Section 5, Subsection 4

Signatories contravening any of the points herein, or agreed upon at a later date, will be subjected to sanctions by the Prometheus Accord Committee, as specified in document 457-AF15-193-B, 'The Prometheus Accord Committee'.


	5. Continuation

Establishing shot:

A square of paper fills the screen; off-white and thick, coarse-looking. It could almost be some ancient parchment, aside from its apparent crisp newness. There is writing on it, but most of the words are too small to read. At the top, there is a phrase that looks like 'You are cordially invited.' At the bottom, a scrawl of a signature, the first word of which is almost certainly 'Captain.' Below that, a stylised black icon of a clenched fist, wreathed in red flame.

[Kudos to design on that one. It's certainly dramatic enough for our diva!]

After holding focus on the fiery sigil for a few seconds, the camera slowly pulls back to reveal that the paper is spread out on a solid wooden desk, held down by paperweights. Further back, and we see the office in which the desk sits; spacious and well-furnished. There are various knick-knacks and ornaments strewn around, but the room seems comfortable, rather than cluttered.

[Hmm. Maybe linger a little longer on those awards. Remind the people that Diane used to be one of the greats. Not that she isn't any longer of course. Just... Well. You know what I mean.]

It is also occupied.

The Iron Lady sits behind her desk, imposing as a queen on her throne. Leaning forward a little in her chair, she frowns at the piece of paper in front of her, seemingly lost in thought. She sighs softly, shakes her head, and then looks up. At first it seems as if it is the viewer themselves that she pins with that steely gaze, but then a shift of angle reveals that she's looking at a woman seated across the desk from her.

Lady Liberty sits up straighter as she meets the Iron Lady's eyes. Her legs are crossed demurely at her ankles, her gloved hands folded in her lap. Something about the scene, the set-up, is oddly reminiscent of a schoolgirl in her headmistress' office.

[I couldn't have framed this better myself. Kudos to the camera operators.]

"You realise it's a trap, of course." The Iron Lady's tone is matter of fact, maybe even a touch condescending.

"I know." Lady Liberty is resolute, determined. There's something in her voice that's almost like a challenge. She doesn't look away, even as the Iron Lady's eyes narrow, standing strong beneath a glare that's withered far more experienced heroes than this young lady.

[Yes! Old guard versus new blood. Pitch-perfect delivery. I love it! It makes my life *so* much easier when the 'talent' can actually act worth a damn. Certain... hiccups... notwithstanding, I think we did pretty well with this lot.]

"He isn't going to play by the rules."

Lady Liberty's hands tighten in her lap. "I know," she says, once more.

"It's dangerous."

"That's what I signed up for."

[Nice! I bet the viewers just eat that up.]

The Iron Lady doesn't reply right away. She inclines her head a little, acknowledging the point, then braces her hands on the desk and slowly, painfully, levers herself to her feet. Turning away from Lady Liberty, she limps over to the window and leans on the sill, looking out through the glass.

"He can hurt you, you know," she murmurs.

Lady Liberty looks down, her jaw tightening. "He won't," she bites out.

The Iron Lady smiles wryly, looking back over her shoulder at Lady Liberty.

"Why? Because he's still in love with you?"

"No." In one fluid motion, Lady Liberty is on her feet, chin up and legs akimbo. "Because I'm *stronger*."

In the silence that follows her words, the contrast between the two women has never been greater. The Iron Lady, frail and cynical. Lady Liberty, young and vital and passionate. The tableau holds long enough for the silence to become tense, awkward. The Iron Lady is the one who breaks it.

"Maybe you are," she murmurs, sounding just the tiniest bit doubtful. "But it's still a risk."

"He'll hurt people if I don't go."

"What makes you think he won't if you do?" Lady Liberty frowns, starting to reply, but the Iron Lady waves a hand, dismissing whatever she was going to say. "I know, I know. We can't take the chance." She sighs heavily, the sound weary and defeated. "Fine. Go. Meet with him, see what he has to say for himself. But be careful. And I *will* have the rest of the team standing by in case things get out of hand."

"I understand." Lady Liberty doesn't sound triumphant. She just sounds... determined.

"Good." The Iron Lady turns back to face the window. "Go and make your preparations. We'll have a team briefing in an hour."

It's a clear dismissal. Lady Liberty nods sharply, then turns on her heel and strides out of view. The camera remains focused on the Iron Lady, closing in on her face as. Her expression remains unchanged as the sound of a door opening, and then closing again comes from somewhere out of shot.

The Iron Lady looks out at the city spread below her. After a few moments, she shakes her head, sighing softly.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

[And cut!]

 

* * * * *

 

Title card:

A rectangle of black slate. And it is definitely black, rather than dark grey. The picture this time is sharper, the contrast  
better. The chalk writing is still inscribed in the same neat, angular hand. In fact, almost all the words and numbers are exactly the same as the previous recording.

Almost all.

 

Project: Prometheus Orange (Ref: PO-28071-513-72-V)

Series: TrHuLTE-5-17-B

Record Type/Number: Case study/#003-041

Subject(s): "Epsilon Dove" (PO/S#4.012/ED/M-PR/MM[El-W])

Principal Investigator: Professor Sir Jonathan Lethbrige-Shaw

Site: Porton Down

Date: 08/10/1943

 

The slate is pulled aside to reveal that the laboratory is even more cluttered than last time, although there seem to be fewer white-coated scientists bustling around the place. The Jacob's ladder is nowhere to be seen. In its place is a labyrinthine tangle of wires and metal, adorned here and there with dials and blinking lights. It's purpose is... not immediately apparent. Perhaps it's merely a peculiar ornament.

Whatever it is, no one is paying it any attention whatsoever.

Professor Lethbridge-Shaw again takes centre-stage. He identifies himself and subject ED in a clipped, perfunctory manner.

"It has been forty-five days since ED underwent the Prometheus Orange protocol. He remains in good health, and even his prior injuries have shown some degree of improvement." He gestures towards ED's scar, which does in fact seem much improved in appearance. And, while he still walks stiffly, his limp is not quite as pronounced. "Now, if you would, ED..." Professor Lethbridge-Shaw gestures towards where the other scientists wait with their devices and lab books.

"Yes, Professor."

ED undergoes another battery of physical and mental tests, just as extensive and thorough as those performed in the first recording. They are perhaps carried out with a little less visible excitement than last time, but with no less care and precision. If anything, the sense of an intricately choreographed dance is even stronger as the scientists pass him seamlessly between themselves, moving around each other and handing off samples without even needing to speak. Sometimes, it seems they barely even need to look at each other.

The tests and examinations are completed with alacrity.

Making a few short notes on his clipboard, the professor pronounces the results satisfactory. There is a clear note of anticipation in his voice as he adds:

"And now we will proceed to the testing of ED's para-abilities. The control, duration and amplitude of these has shown considerable improvement over the past few weeks, and we now have a good baseline for the types of effects he can achieve. Even after prolonged use, ED has shown no ill-effects beyond tiredness and increased appetite. It is, therefore, time to start testing the limits of what he can do." He turns to ED. "As we discussed, please."

ED nods sharply, his expression eager. "Yes, Professor."

Unlike in the last recording, he is not strapped into a chair. Instead, he remains standing while the sensors are fixed to his skin. Rather than several small bowls of water, the bench he faces now holds one large tank, which is full almost to the brim. Taking a deep breath, ED holds out his hands in front of him, palms facing downwards. He starts to move them like a conductor instructing a complex, intricate symphony.

And the water obeys.

The whole mass of it lifts into the air, keeping the cuboid shape of its container for a few seconds before morphing into a sphere, and then a torus. More gestures, and it morphs again. And again. And again. A corrugated half-cylinder with the outline of a door at one end: an air-raid shelter. A fighter plane. A swan. A woman's form.

"This water-specific variant of telekinesis -- provisionally designated as hydrokinesis -- was the first of ED's para-abilities to manifest," says Professor Lethbridge-Shaw, speaking to the camera. "If you recall from the previous recordings, he was first only able to affect small volumes of water, and then merely to agitate them a little. As you see here, he has now progressed somewhat beyond that."

The water ripples slightly, even though it holds to the woman's shape ED has formed it into. But these small movements start to still, the clear liquid turning slightly opaque, the water solidifying into an ice-sculpture.

"Cryokinesis was the second of para-ability he expressed," observes the professor. "Sensors have recorded small increases in ambient temperature when he performs this feat, suggesting that he is simply siphoning off energy from the water and somehow transferring it to the surroundings." He smiles thinly. "I say 'simply' but, of course, it is really anything but. So far, ED has been unable to freeze part of a contiguous volume of water. This ability would seem to be 'all or nothing'. It remains to be seen if this will continue to be the case.

The ice-sculpture hovers there for a few moments, gently rotating, smoothing out into a cylindrical shape. With a shimmer, it melts back to water again, the phase change taking barely more than a couple of seconds. As soon as it is complete, the cylinder shortens, the sides bulging out until it is once more a perfect sphere. The surface of the sphere begins to ripple and bubble, boiling away until there is nothing to be seen.

"Pyrokinesis came very soon after cryokinesis. It appears to follow the same 'all or nothing' principle as cryokinesis. It is possible, of course, that these are not separate abilities at all, but are merely part of a continuum. For the moment, however, we will continue to use the dual labels."

A mumuring runs through the assembled scientists. Professor Lethbridge-Shaw turns his attention back to the air above the bench, where a golf-ball sized ball of water can now be seen.

"This is new," the professor says, slowly. "Previously, ED has not been able to recondense the water once evaporated. Fascinating."

He falls silent, watching with rapt attention as the sphere grows larger. And larger still. ED's outstretched hands are trembling visibly now, his breathing hoarse and labored. The ball of water is growing more slowly now, but it is still growing. It is almost back to its original size. Almost... Almost... And now it's past that milestone.

And still growing.

There are a few muttered exclamations from the scientists. Professor Lethbridge-Shaw rapidly scribbles something on his clipboard.

"Dr Jones," he calls, not looking up. "Can you please check the instrument readings?"

One of the white-coated figures -- presumably Dr Jones -- jumps like a startled rabbit. "Yes, Professor!" He makes a rapid circuit of the lab, checking with the scientists stationed before a variety of different measuring devices, who are diligently writing things down. He looks at the instruments, rapidly scans the pages of the books they obligingly hold up for him, and makes notes of his own. As he moves from station to station, his expression changes from startled, to slightly puzzled, to utterly bewildered. When his circuit is complete, he hurries over to the professor and holds out his lab book.

"The humidity readings stabilised a few minutes ago," he says, as the Professor skims his notes. "I don't understand... where's the water coming from?"

Simultaneously, Dr Jones and Professor Lethbridge-Shaw turn to look at the still-expanding globe of water.

"Matter creation?" the professor wonders. "Teleportation, perhaps?" He shakes his head. "We need more data. Speculation is useless at this stage."

"Professor!" calls one of the scientists monitoring ED's sensor readings. "Something's wrong."

Even as he speaks, ED shudders and twitches like a man being elecrocuted, muscles clenching spasmodically before tensing all at once and locking him rigid. He starts to choke.

"ED, that's enough," orders the professor. ED doesn't seem to hear. Blood starts pouring from his nose, running down his face to splatter on the ground at his feet. His eyes roll up in his head, but he doesn't fall. The ball of water continues to grow. "ED, please stop!"

Still no response. ED's muscles and tendons are like knotted cords beneath his skin, tetanic contractions keeping him on his feet, arching his back and hyperextending all his joints. A loud crack echoes around the room like a gunshot, and one elbow suddenly bends at an unnatural angle, unable to take the strain.

The ball of water keeps growing.

"We need to snap him out of it. Dr Smith, Nurse Williams: emergency drill, just like we practiced."

The three of them hurry over to ED, who is clearly in a state of some distress. As the doctor and nurse work -- he treating the elbow and she preparing an injection -- the professor tries to get his attention. He taps the younger man's cheek, repeatedly calling to him and telling him to stop what he's doing. After a few fruitless attempts, he shakes his head and then barks out:

"Private Briggs! Stand down *immediately*. That is an order."

That finally seems to get a response. Through a locked jaw, ED -- or, Private Briggs -- stutters something that might be: "Yes, Sir.

The water abruptly loses its shape and cascades to the ground, soaking the bench, the floor, ED and the three people clustered around him. As the water falls, so does he, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut to lie in a crumpled heap. The water around him starts to darken rapidly.

Dr Smith and Nurse Williams, crouch over ED, checking his vital signs.

"Pulse is there, but is faint and erratic," Dr Smith reports.

"Breathing has stopped," notes Nurse Williams.

"Begin resuscitation. I'll try to stabilise his pulse." Doctor and nurse work together, frantically trying to save the patient. It's clear they're fighting a losing battle, but they keep at it.

"Where is all that blood coming from?" wonders one of the scientists, his voice horrified and disbelieving. "There's so much of it..."

It's spreading out over the floor, much more than a nose bleed. It almost seems to be oozing from ED's pores, from every part of him, until the doctor and nurse are liberally smeared with it. The scene almost looks like something out of a slaughterhouse.

Albeit a slaughterhouse filmed in shades of grey.

"Pulse has stopped. Beginning chest compressions."

There's a sudden, loud crunch, as if someone has stepped sharply upon a bundle of dry twigs.

"What the deuce?!" The doctor freezes, horrified, as ED's chest simply caves in under his hands.

Silence falls. Nurse Williams sits up, scrubbing dazedly at her face, managing only to smear ED's blood further up her cheeks.

"Pronounce him, Dr Smith." Professor Lethbridge-Shaw's voice is tightly controlled. He speaks quietly, but clearly.

"What?"

"I think Private Briggs is a little beyond your expertise." A faint shadow of something, perhaps grief, lingers briefly on the professor's face before being replaced by an implacable reserve. "Either prove me wrong or pronounce him dead." A heartbeat's pause, and then: "Do your *job* doctor."

Dr Smith blinks. "Yes. Yes, of course." He makes a perfunctory examination of his patient, and then checks his watch. He has to wipe the face clean before stating, loudly and clearly: "Time of death recorded as 11:03am." He bows his head briefly. "May god have mercy on this poor boy's soul."

"Private Briggs was a man, not a boy," the professor says, tightly. "He died serving his country." He glances back over his shoulder briefly, frowning at the camera. "Please turn that off." Turning back to look down at the body, he squares his shoulders. "We have work to do."

The image fades to black.

 

* * * * *

 

"And... you're done."

The stylist beams at Alicia, who automatically smiles back at her. Honestly, smiling is the last thing she feels like doing right now, but there's no point in taking her bad mood out on Jennifer. The woman is only doing her job. It's not her fault that Alicia is feeling more and more like she's being prepared for the sacrificial pyre. Like she's expected to just obediently shatter her dignity, her self-respect, her very *heart* on the altar of the almighty Narrative.

It's not her fault that Eli wants to turn Alicia's *failure* into primtime entertainment.

Besides, if there's one commandment that every superhero with a survival instinct tries to abide by, it is: Thou Shalt Not Piss Off Thy Stylist. The stories of those who broke this cardinal rule live on in legend, passed on in whispers in the dead of night. They become cautionary tales for the rest of them. Aphasia's one-woman disco revival. StreamLine's bi-weekly full body wax. Crystale and the great glass wardrobe malfunction.

Bad guys and natural disasters can only kill you. Vengeful stylists can make you *wish* you were dead.

Thank you," Alicia says, warmly.

"Do you like it?" Jennifer asks, her expression hopeful.

Alicia stands and twirls slowly, studying herself in the full-length mirrors. To her own eyes, she's almost unrecognisable. Lady Liberty's usual uniform consists of some variant of red minidress over white leggings, with knee-length red boots and a half-cape bearing a stylised red torch on a white background. Plus the obligatory mask, of course. (Not that the the simple strip of cloth with eyeholes really does anything to conceal her features. But that isn't really the point of it.) The ensemble looks a little *too* much like a cheerleader's outfit for her tastes, but it isn't exactly up to her. (And it could be worse. It could be much, *much* worse.)

The woman in the mirror... doesn't look like a cheerleader.

She looks like a princess.

A Disney princess.

Her dark hair is pulled up into a French knot, timeless and elegant. In addition to making her neck look long and graceful, it reveals the glitter of gemstones in her earlobes, a tasteful cluster of red and white. (They're not real rubies and diamonds, of course, but they'll look convincing enough on camera.) A matching pendant gleams in the hollow of her throat, the gems there picking out the shape of her torch emblem. Almost surprisingly, her make-up is relatively understated. In fact, a great deal of effort seems to have gone into making it seem like she's barely wearing any at all.

Her dress (her gown) is a layered confection of flame over ivory. A snug red bodice tapers down almost to a point in front, suggesting the shape of a heart. The outer layer of the skirt -- the same warm red as the bodice -- sweeps back from the base of the bodice and flows over her hips, cascading down behind her like a waterfall. The hem of it brushes the backs of her calves. It's cut away in front to reveal the inner skirt, a froth of silk and lace in palest ivory that comes to just below her knees. The dress is sleeveless, but her arms are mostly covered by a combination of a high-collared bolero jacket and long gloves, also both in ivory.

Upon her feet are Roman sandals, wedge-heeled, with straps that twine halfway to her knees over sheer tights. (Naturally, these darken to opacity above the hem of her skirt -- vital to preserve the modesty of a flying, dress-clad superheroine.) Despite their apparent fragility, the sandals are much, much sturdier than they look.

Like so many things.

(That's probably just as well. And thank god the wedges are small enough that she isn't going to have to try to dredge up her memories of the 'fighting in high heels' course she had to take back when she started. The course is mandatory for all of the female superheroes.)

Belatedly, Alicia realises that Jennifer is still waiting for her verdict.

"Wow," she says. "It's... amazing." She isn't sure if she likes it, and it certainly isn't something she would have picked for herself, but she really is impressed. A lot of work has gone into creating this look, and it *is* beautiful.

She's certainly going to make an impression.

Smiling, she turns back to Jennifer. "Thank you," she says once more.

"You're very welcome!" Jennifer claps her hands excitedly, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet, and then her expression and demeanour abruptly sober. She looks Alicia over again with a professional, appraising eye, occasionally rearranging a fold of material or brushing away a (no doubt imaginary) speck of lint. Finally, she gives a decisive nod, and the bright smile returns. "Great! Want me to put your mask on for you?"

"No, that's okay," Alicia says. "I can manage. But thank you." It's probably silly, she knows, but she always likes to do this part herself. The simple act of settling the mask over her features and fastening it in place has an almost ritual feel to it. It helps her to keep some distance between Alicia and Lady Liberty. It also reminds her that, although it doesn't really seem like it most of the time, she does have a choice. Maybe not much of one -- she can't even begin to imagine how much trouble would rain down on her if she did just decide to walk away -- but some is better than none.

(Especially knowing that, if it came down to it, Kalinda would go to bat for her. And that's a thought to keep her warm inside; to keep her chin up and a smile on her lips.)

She can do this.

She can.

Alicia brings the mask -- specially designed for the occasion, the outfit and the hairstyle -- to her face. Carefully, she attaches it to the fastenings cunningly anchored in her hair, tightening the straps to that it lays flush against her face. (She isn't worried about smearing her make up. The stuff the stylists use practically requires an industrial sander to shift.) She uses her fingertips to smooth it against her skin, adjusts the straps once more, and then she's ready.

"Perfect!" Jennifer trills, smiling from ear to ear.

And Lady Liberty smiles back.

 

* * * * *

 

There's something wrong with this picture.

The image is perhaps a little askew, the edges perhaps a little out of focus, the light perhaps a little too dark. But it's good enough to make out the figure of Lady Liberty perched on the edge of a chair. There are more such chairs arranged around the room; so stylish they just have to be hell to sit on. These, together with the water-cooler and the low coffee table whose glass surface is liberally strewn with magazines, suggest that she's in some kind of waiting room.

Appropriately enough, she seems to be waiting.

The door opens, and a black-clad figure steps into the room. Lady Liberty looks up and smiles.

"Come to wish me luck?" she asks. She sets aside the magazine she'd been idly flicking through.

"Something like that," says Mr Magnetism, moving forward to stand in front of her. He returns her smile, but seems a little distracted. From the way Lady Liberty frowns at him, she notices this.

"Is everything okay?"

He shrugs. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"You tell me." She stands up, takes a step towards him. "Come on," she says, softly, when he remains silent. "There's obviously something up. What's going on, W-"

"I don't like this," he breaks in, uncharacteristically serious for the smiling charmer the camera knows and loves.

"This... dinner?" she asks, tentatively.

"Yes, the dinner. And... And all the rest of it." He pauses, draws a slightly ragged breath, his usually smooth facade cracked wide open. "Him."

"He isn't going to hurt me," she says, a touch of weariness in her voice, like this is an argument she's had before.

"I'm not worried about him fireballing you!"

"Then what?"

"I'm worried he's going to break your heart."

Dead silence fills the space between them, the slight widening of Lady Liberty's eyes the only indication that she's even heard his words.

"What?" she says, eventually, the word barely even loud enough for the microphone to pick up.

"He's manipulative, he's ruthless and he's willing to do anything to get what he wants. And he-" Mr Magnetism's voice cracks on the last word. He clears his throat and tries again. "He wants you."

She laughs bitterly. "He certainly has a strange way of showing it."

"But it's still true. Hell, maybe he even loves you; who knows? But he's betrayed you before and he'll do it again. He won't be able to help himself. And I... I don't want you to be hurt like that any more."

Silence again, charged and loaded. The kind of silence you could almost cut with a laser beam. The two of them, Mr Magnetism and Lady Liberty, just stand there, looking at each other. Looking into each other's eyes. They're separated by a mere few inches of air.

"Is that all you want?"

Slowly, so slowly, Mr Magnetism leans in towards Lady Liberty, only pausing at the last moment, his lips almost -- but not quite -- brushing hers.

"You know it isn't," he murmurs.

Lady Liberty draws in her breath sharply, audibly. Her hands twitch a little, as if to raise them -- to push away or to pull close? -- but they remain by her sides. She sighs softly, and takes a small step backwards.

"You have to do this now?" she asks, and there's a note of wry humour underscoring the incredulity.

Mr Magnetism's mouth draws up into a rueful grin.

"Yeah, sorry about that. Kind of a spontaneous thing. I guess my timing sucks, huh?"

"It... could be better, yes." Lady Liberty smiles properly, shaking her head. "But that's always been our problem, hasn't it?"

Now it's Mr Magnetism's turn to take a step backwards.

"How long have we been dancing like this, anyway?" he murmurs. "No, never mind," he continues, before Lady Liberty can reply. "It doesn't matter. Maybe... Maybe this time we can finally get the timing right?"

"You know I'm still married," Lady Liberty says, but her voice is gentle.

Mr Magnetism snorts. "Like there's a judge alive and not completely oblivious to current events who wouldn't grant Lady Liberty a divorce from Captain Corruption."

"Maybe, but..." She pauses, takes a deep breath, and then continues. "I suppose we do need to talk. Properly. And sometime when I'm *not* about to go to dinner with my supervillain husband!" She grins briefly, and then her expression turns serious again. "Alright?"

"Alright," Mr Magnetism agrees. He suddenly sweeps an elegant bow, scooping up one of Lady Liberty's hands and lightly kissing her ivory glove. Grinning mischievously up at her, he adds: "Anything my lady wishes."

Lady Liberty rolls her eyes and reclaims her hand, but she's smiling broadly. "Very funny, Mr Magnetism."

"You meant to say charming, right?" he says, straightening again.

"I know what I meant."

Before he can object, there's a knock at the door and a young woman enters the waiting room. She looks a little startled to see Mr Magnetism there, but recovers quickly, giving him a shy, almost awed smile, before turning to Lady Liberty.

"We're ready for you, Lady Liberty,"

"Thank you, Tess."

Tess looks even more startled at being called by name. Looking flustered, she nods, smiles and ducks out of the room again.

"Well, that's my cue," Lady Liberty murmurs, smoothing down her skirt and starting for the door. "I suppose I'll see you when I see you."

Mr Magnetism nods, smiling. "Knock 'em dead!" Lady Liberty glares at him. "I mean, good luck," he corrects himself.

"Thank you."

Chicago's favourite superheroine makes her exit, followed by Mr Magnetism. Just before he passes out of shot, his smile fades.

Quietly, he murmurs: "I hope you won't need it."

 

* * * * *

 

Lady Liberty is bathed in the glare of what seems like a thousand camera flashes as she emerges gracefully from the limousine. It's rare to see her travel by ground transport rather than taking to the skies, but this is a special occasion. Besides, her dress isn't the most flight-ready of outfits.

Reporters shout questions, adoring fans shout their adulation. Lady Liberty smiles and waves to all of them.

[Saint Alicia in action! The public love her, the press love her, the camera loves her. Even her team-mates love her. Mostly. If she'd only let me, I think I could really make her a star.]

"I don't have time for questions right now, I'm afraid," she tells the reporters, sounding genuinely regretful. But she does sign a few autographs for her fans before turning towards her destination: a very fancy restaurant.

A doorman opens the door for her, but before she can step over the threshold, a figure drops down from the sky. She's already spinning to face this sudden new arrival before he -- for it is a man, tall and imposing in black and red -- hits the pavement, her skirts flaring out around her legs as she raises her hands defensively.

Captain Corruption stands there, legs braced, hands out to the sides in an unexpectedly unthreatening gesture. His helmet hides whatever might be showing in his eyes right now, but he seems to be smiling.

"Good evening, Lady Liberty," he says, dark amusement in his voice. He doesn't shout, but his voice carries perfectly through the cold night air. "Feeling a little jumpy, are we?"

She straightens, studying him with an unreadable expression. "A girl can't be too careful these days," she returns, neutrally. "I hear there are unsavoury characters around these parts."

Captain Corruption laughs heartily, the sound at odds with the tension in the air. "Well, I certainly wouldn't want to run into any of *those*," he murmurs. He leans in towards Lady Liberty, who doesn't yield an inch. "Don't worry, I'll protect you from any villains."

"You mean any *other* villains, surely?"

A murmuring runs through the watching crowd at that. Captain Corruption's smile fades, but doesn't vanish completely. There's a hard edge to his voice as he says:

"The night is still young."

[Perfect! Just perfect. This whole sequence... What can I say? Fantastic. This is when it starts going off the rails completely, of course, but up to this point it's, ah, solid gold.]

The silence continues for a few beats longer than is truly comfortable, long enough for the crowd to become restless. Lady Liberty's next words are almost inaudible, but the on-screen subtitles provide a helpful translation.

"Shall we go inside and get this over with?"

"Tempting, but no." The susurrus of chatter suddenly dies down as the onlookers start to realise that something else is happening. The resulting quiet allows the next part to come across with crystal clarity. "I have something else in mind."

Lady Liberty stiffens. "The arrangement was for dinner, here. That's what I agreed to."

In contrast to her clear discomfort, Captain Corruption relaxes, seemingly completely at ease. "I've changed my mind. Villain's prerogative."

"Then I'm leaving." She starts to move past him, heading back towards the limousine.

"You don't want to do that." Suddenly, Captain Corruption's voice is pure threat. He raises his hands, and the wisps of flame start to flicker around his form. Someone in the crowd screams. Lady Liberty spins on her heel, glaring daggers at him.

"Or what?"

"Or bad things happen."

Captain Corruption snaps his fingers and a thin tongue of flame lashes out towards a cameraman who's a little closer than the rest, having bravely inched forward during the previous conversation. His camera is suddenly outlined in red and orange. He yelps and drops it, shaking his hand vigorously. The unfortunate device hits the pavement with a sharp crack, melting and twisting as the flames continue to lap at it. The man doesn't even glance at it, all his attention focused on Captain Corruption. His face is a mask of wide-eyed shock.

[Okay, so who saw *that* coming? Anyone? Didn't think so. Of course it was a set-up. I had someone look into it. Turns out the cunning bastard arranged it ahead of time. Circumstantial evidence only, unfortunately -- or maybe even fortunately -- but I'm pretty sure.

Tricksy fucker.

I don't know if I should be pissed or proud. Maybe both. Seems he did listen to some of what I tried to teach him after all.

The cameraman didn't know anything about it, of course. Poor guy. It's the journalist with him who made the deal. I gather she's doing quite well on the back of this incident. The cameraman's not doing badly out of it either -- the public are lapping up his 'I was nearly killed by a supervillain' story. I bet he can dine out on it for years.

I wonder if anyone ever told him he was set up...

Anyway, on with the show.]

There's a moment of stunned paralysis, and then a surge of backwards movement as the crowd of onlookers tries to retreat. Fortunately for them, Captain Corruption is focused on Lady Liberty. For a moment, when he lashed out with fire, she looked just as shocked as any of the rapidly ebbing crowd, but now her features are set in an expression of grim determination. She steps right up to Captain Corruption.

"I won't let you hurt anyone," she says, her voice pure ice.

He smiles, slowly. "Then follow me."

With that, he takes off. Lady Liberty hesitates for just a fraction of a second, and then does the same. The camera jerks upwards, the image blurring briefly with motion before it steadies, bringing the scene into focus once more.

Lady Liberty follows Captain Corruption out into the night.

The two figures dwindle into the distance until they disappear altogether, until the only remaining sign of their presence is the glowing contrail of the Captain's flight path. After a minute or so, even that fades.

Now, the only thing left to see is the familiar light-haze of Chicago at night.

And, beyond that, darkness.

 

* * * * *

 

As she zips through the cold night air, one distant part of Alicia's mind is fretting about the damage this impromptu flight might be doing to her outfit and hair. The rest of her is quietly furious. At Peter, for doing this to her. At herself, for letting him. Not that she *could* have done anything other than follow him, not with the threat he made. Not that she thinks he would *actually* burn anyone. Not really.

Not really.

And yet.

And yet she never in a million years would have thought *Jonas* capable of hurting anyone, of turning his powers on innocent people, and then he...

She shivers a little inside, telling herself that her stomach is churning because she's just so very *angry*.

(It isn't fear.)

(She's not *afraid*.)

(She's never been afraid of Peter before and she sure as hell isn't going to start now. Not even if she all of a sudden can't shake the memory of another night, another confrontation. Green energy, not red fire, a wave of it lashing out towards -- not her, not at first, but there were people there, *children*, and she couldn't hope to get them all out of the way in time and so the only thing she could do was try to shield them and...)

(No.)

(That's in the past. Over and done, just like Corrosion Man. Jonas.)

(This is Peter.)

(And whatever else he may have done, however he may have hurt her emotionally, he isn't a monster.)

(He isn't a monster.)

With an effort of will, she clears her mind of distractions and forces herself to looks for landmarks, to orient herself. Keeping up with Peter isn't really a problem for her. Although he's flying fast, he's not trying to lose her. (Anyway, she's always been better than him at aerial maneouvres. Even if Eli did usually have him take the lead for the cameras.) She thinks it's more likely that he's just trying to keep her in the dark about their destination by forcing her to concentrate on keeping him in sight.

Navigating from the air is more difficult than driving or walking through the streets, but she's pretty sure they're heading for south-west Chicago, most likely for one of the residential areas that cluster on the outskirts of the city. They could be heading outside the city limits, of course, but she doesn't think that's the case. That hunch is proved right when Peter starts to descend, heading towards a cluster of buildings.

A vague memory surfaces, something about a new gated community, built a few years ago. Is this where the part of the company that deals with the designated heels, the supervillains -- Villains, Inc, perhaps? -- has its base of operations? It would make sense, she supposes. Unlike their heroic counterparts, they have more of a need for secrecy. The better to maintain the illusion that the superhero versus supervillain conflict is anything more than a charade. That the whole thing is just a scripted narrative.

A story.

That none of it is real.

(But isn't that so much better than the alternative?)

(At least this way, no one gets hurt.)

Peter banks into a shallow curve and starts to descend, aiming for the roof of what looks like a low apartment building. Unlike the Heroes, Inc skyscraper, it stands less than ten storeys high. Alicia follows him down, landing softly a couple of metres behind him.

"This way," he says, striding forwards without even bothering to check that she's still behind him. For a brief moment, she's tempted to take flight again, to leave this whole farce behind her and just go home. But she resists the temptation. She's here now, she might as well see it through. And she does want to know what this is all about, is curious to see what it is he wants to tell her in private.

She lets him lead her to the rooftop entrance and he pulls out a swipe card to open the door, just like at the Heroes tower. There's no security office inside, but there are, of course, the ever-present cameras. The door clicks shut behind them.

"So this is the Villains' Lair," Alicia murmurs.

Peter hits the button to call the elevator, turning to her with a wry smile. "Not as fancy as the Heroes' Tower, is it? But we manage." The elevator arrives, and he gestures her to enter. "After you, Mrs Florick."

She shoots him a hard look, but doesn't deign to give him the satisfaction of a verbal response. He's just trying to rile her. They spend the ride down in silence, emerging onto the fourth floor and heading down a carpeted corridor to a door with a card lock. This, too, is unlocked with Peter's card.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he says, opening the door with a theatrical flourish.

Alicia heads into the apartment, looking around her with interest. "So this is how the other half lives..." The short hallway leads into a spacious, tastefully decorated living room. The furniture is solid and expensive-looking, and a couple of paintings adorn the walls. An enormous flatscreen television dominates one corner of the room. Eyebrows raised a little, she turns back to Peter. "Yes, I see you'd have to be a real martyr to put up with such squalor."

Peter laughs. "Well, maybe there are a few fringe benefits to going dark side."

He closes the door and leans against the wall beside it, folding his arms as he studies her. She returns the favour, looking him up and down, taking in the details of his outfit. His stylists have also dressed him for the occasion; black suit, black shirt, black boots, black gloves. Splashes of dark red at his collar and cuffs, and around the edges of his helmet. A slightly modified version of his usual rounded helmet, the front slightly elongated, almost like a muzzle, the suggestion of pointed projections from the top, almost like...

"You look beautiful," he says softly, interrupting her train of thought.

"Thank you," she says automatically, even as she curses the instinct that makes her reply politely when all she wants to do is sneer.

Fortunately, he helps her by continuing:

"The dress is a little bit, ah, renaissance faire, though. Very red riding hood." He chuckles, low and amused. "I guess that makes me the big bad wolf."

She could kick herself as she realises that he's right: that's exactly the kind of image the stylists were trying to project. Lady Liberty, the personification of fragile innocence. Captain Corruption, all violent viciousness. God, she can just see the narratives now. The seduction of innocence. The redemption of evil.

She's actually glad of the disgusted irritation that boils up within her. It makes it easy for her to stiffen her spine and look him straight in the eye, to hit just the right note of icy cold as she replies.

"One out of three isn't bad, I suppose," she says, smiling. She leans forward a little, lowering her voice. "More or less. After all, a man who cheats on his wife *might* be described as a dog."

He stiffens for a moment, his mouth compressing to a hard line, but then he shakes his head and laughs. It sounds genuine, albeit with a somewhat bitter edge, and Alicia finds herself wishing he would take off his helmet. It's so much harder to figure out what's going through someone's mind when you can't see their face. As if he can hear her, Peter obliges, setting it down on a table next to a lead-glass sculpture.

"I guess I deserve that," he says, a little ruefully.

He meets her eyes, and she can't help searching them for (...glinting with mad fury as he leans towards her, angry that she doesn't believe him; that she just doesn't *get* it, and...) clues as to what's going through his head. As the sharp humour fades from his expression, her first impression is of a profound weariness. With a start, she wonders if he's just as tired of the masquerade as she is. He, who was always so much more comfortable with the publicity and the playacting than she was.

Maybe it's different if you're not on the side of the angels.

There's something else there, though, something simmering just beneath the surface. Excitement? Hope?

What does he want from her this time?

But she can't ask him that, not exactly, and so she compromises with: "So, what now?"

He grins, beckoning her to follow him as he moves past her, towards an archway in the wall at the far side of the living room.

"I was thinking we'd eat. I did promise you dinner, after all. And it's the least I could do after making you fly all over town."

Frowning a little, she steps through the archway and stops in her tracks at the sight of the dining table set for two. A small, wheeled cart is parked discreetly nearby, a number of covered dishes stacked atop it. Some are set over an electric hotplate, while others are kept on ice. Peter has already reached the table and is pulling out a seat for her.

After a moment's hesitation, she goes over and sits down. Peter smiles and goes over to the cart, picking up two of the plates. There are padded gloves folded neatly over the handle of the cart but, naturally, he doesn't bother with those. Well, it isn't like the heat can actually hurt him. Setting them down on the table, he lifts the lids with a flourish, revealing bowls of soup.

"Your starter, milady. Carrot and coriander soup." His smile turns a little sly. "Your favourite."

Another dish proves to contain bread rolls. There is both wine and sparkling water on the table. He offers her the wine. She almost demurs, but then lets him pour her a glass. She can't *actually* get drunk unless she wants to, and there's no way she's going to want to.

Alicia raises her eyebrows as he sits down opposite her. There are questions she wants to ask, but she hardly knows where to begin. It isn't often that she feels this flustered, but this whole thing has thrown her completely for a loop.

Which, no doubt, was Peter's intention.

In the end, she settles for asking the question that's been bugging her ever since they walked past the cameras on the rooftop entrance.

"So, are you actually allowed to have dinner guests? Or should be expect a very irate Eli -- or his equivalent over here -- to come storming through that door any moment now?"

Peter laughs and picks up his spoon. "No to both of those, actually. I have a friend in security who helped me arrange it."

"And the catering?"

He shrugs. "I'm friends with one of the chefs."

"I see." And that's the first thing this whole evening that actually makes any sense. Of course Peter has *friends* -- a network of favours and influence he can pull on like a spider tugging at the strands of its web. It's what he's good at, what he does. He can't help himself.

"Try the soup," he urges her. "The chefs here really are very good, and it would be a shame to let it go cold."

With an inward sigh, she picks up her own spoon and follows his advice.

The soup *is* good.

"My compliments to the chef," she says.

"I'll be sure to tell him that. Now, let's eat."

"I thought you wanted to talk."

"After dinner."

"We're supposed to eat in silence?"

"No, but we'll keep it to light conversation only." He takes a sip of his own soup, sighing appreciatively at the taste. "The serious stuff will keep."

She wonders if she should protest, if she should try to push him into saying whatever it is he dragged her over here to say, but, well, the soup *is* good. If the rest of the food is up to this quality, it seems a shame to distract themselves from it with unpleasant conversation.

Anyway, if he's relaxed, he might let something slip.

"Fine," she says, and helps herself to a bread roll. "So, what's your Eli like to work with?"

 

* * * * *

 

Posts from a thread on the official 'Heroes' forum titled 'Should LL and CC get back together?':

"NO WAI!!!! every1 knows shed be better off with Mr M!!! I bet he knows how to treat a girl right! LOL!!!"

\-- MagneChick

"Yeah, the were good together. But she should only take him back if he *really* tries to earn her forgiveness. She should make him *beg* first."

\-- Koko_Loko

"Why can't she have Captain Corruption *and* Mr Magnetism? Or maybe the two of *them* could get together. That would be SOOOOO HOT!!"

\-- SJ_091

"Who says she has to have either? There's nothing wrong with being single."

\-- RainbowDashing

"there is if ur a loser. anyway shes probly already fucking mr magnetard."

\-- Twiglet2000

"You're the loser. And the word 'magnetard' is really offensive. Please don't use it again."

\-- RainbowDashing

"Hey guys, let's not derail the thread."

\-- Koko_Loko

"ill derail YOUR FACE!!! you fucking fucktard"

\-- Twiglet2000

A couple of pages later:

"This thread has been locked by the moderators."

 

* * * * *

 

Dinner is... strange. The food is wonderful, and the conversation stays within the bounds of light gossip about people in the business, peppered with the occasional humourous anecdote about dealing with Eli. Or with Stacie Hall, Eli's equivalent for the supervillains.

It seems surprisingly easy for Alicia and Peter to fall into familiar patterns, to find their way into the old ebb and flow of conversation.

At least on the surface.

At least when Alicia doesn't let herself focus on the things he's done, or on the fact that she's technically here under duress.

Fortunately, she's had a great deal of practice in the art of maintaining a pleasant facade under trying circumstances.

Eventually, dinner is over and, at Peter's suggestion -- his strong suggestion -- they retire to the living room with cups of strong coffee. (Whoever brought the food up had also set up the fancy-looking espresso machine installed in Peter's equally fancy kitchen. Alicia can't help noting that it's better than the model they have back in the Heroes' communal kitchen. Not that she's envious. Much.)

When they're both seated in armchairs so comfortable Alicia wonders if they have to wonder about being lost amongst the cushions, Peter finally gets to the reason for all of this.

"I wanted to talk to you about the Narrative," he says. There is no trace of amusement, now, just the edge of whatever-it-was she saw earlier glinting in his eyes.

"What about it?" she says cautiously, keeping her own expression as neutral as she can.

"I want back in," he says, simply. "I'm tired of playing the bad guy." He sighs heavily, wearily. "I want to be back on the heroes' team, where I belong."

She takes a sip of coffee to give herself time to think. It is, actually, very good coffee. It's only natural that she should take the time to savour it properly.

"That's not up to me," she says, eventually. "You need to talk to Eli. And maybe Stacie."

He nods, acknowledging the point. "But you can help," he says, his voice low and intense. "You can smooth the way for my redemption."

"How? Did you want me to try to, I don't know, put in a good word for you with Eli?"

"No. Well, yes, it would be wonderful if you would do that, but that isn't what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

It's his turn to consider his words now, taking a long draught of his own coffee. She winces a little inside, more at the insult to the beans than at the fact that at one point she would've scalded her mouth raw if she'd tried gulping the hot liquid like that. Idly, she wonders when he started taking his immunity to heat for granted. (Not so idly, she wonders when she started doing the same with her resistance to trauma, or her healing, or her strength, or her flight.)

"I'd like to... force Eli's hand a little."

Suddenly, she has the feeling that she knows where this is going. Nevertheless, she still has to ask the question.

"How?"

"The viewers need to see me looking redeemable. They need to start thinking of me as a hero again. With enough public opinion behind me, Eli won't have a choice but to bring the end game forward." He takes a deep breath. "Alicia, my relationship with you is a big part of that."

He pauses there, looking at her as if willing her to take the next logical step. She meets his gaze impassively.

"Go on," she says.

She doesn't have to make this easy for him.

"If you show them that you can forgive me, then they'll think I'm worth forgiving. I was hoping we could work out... I have some ideas for encounters that might work, if you're willing..." He pauses, looks away, drains the rest of his coffee and then looks back again. "Will you work with me on this?"

"You want me to lie?"

Some part of her, some petty part, is obscurely pleased by the frigid iciness of her tone, by the way he looks genuinely shaken, genuinely hurt by her words.

"I want you to forgive me," he says, speaking the words gently rather than spitting them out in anger as she would have expected.

It feels like something twists inside her chest and, against her will, despite her intentions, she finds herself unbending a little, at least superficially. It's her turn to sigh tiredly.

"I don't know if I can, Peter," she almost whispers. "Maybe someday I will, but now I... You can't ask me that right now. You can't. It's not fair." Her own temper surfaces abruptly, startling her with her own vehemence as she snaps. "You have no *right* to ask for my help, not after what you did."

Peter's eyes widen, and he shifts back a little in his chair. He seems more surprised by her anger than she is, but then, that side of her never was a part of his idea of Alicia Florick.

"I know I don't des-" he starts to say, then bites off his words mid-sentence. "I know I hurt you," he continues, instead. "I know what I did was wrong, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Alicia. Please believe me."

"Are you sorry you hurt me, or are you sorry you got caught?"

"Now *you're* not being fair," he says, and there's the anger she was expecting. But it's controlled for now, and he takes a couple of slow, deep, even breaths before he speaks again. "I don't want to argue with you. I did wrong, I know that. You have every right to be angry with me. But I... You know I still love you. I always have. And I know I can't ask it, that I shouldn't expect it, but I can't help hoping that you still love me too. And if you do, if we still love each other, then I think there's a chance that maybe, with time, we can work this out. That we can get back what we had. What we had was good, wasn't it?" He looks at her expectantly, waiting for her to respond. "Wasn't it?" he says again, when she stays silent.

"Yes," she says, quietly, reluctantly. "It was." Peter relaxes a little, the beginnings of a smile showing on his face, but she isn't finished yet. "Until you started sleeping with your groupies."

The smile vanishes from Peter's face, wiped away as if it had never existed.

"There's only so many times I can say I'm sorry. There's only so many times I can say I made a mistake, and that it won't happen again." He sets his empty cup aside and throws his hands in the air. "What do you want me to do? Just tell me, and I'll do it. I want to make this work, Alicia. I just want things back the way they were."

She holds back her first, instinctive response -- that not sleeping with fans might be a good start -- and makes herself calm down, making her voice deliberately soft and gentle, her posture inoffensive.

"I don't know what you can do," she says, bleakly. "I only know how I feel."

"Okay," he whispers, and then, a little stronger: "Alright." He attempts a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "But at least we're talking about it. This is a start, right?"

It's more complicated than that, of course, but she doesn't have the heart to try to correct him. What good would it do? It's clear that he can't see how much this conversation is hurting her.

"I suppose so," she says, simply.

There isn't anything else she can say.

"Well, good." His smile broadens, his eyes warming, crinkling a little at the edges. "Good," he says again. "And... I hate to ask, really, but the other thing? My redemption?"

She doesn't think he actually wants to cause her pain. It's more that he genuinely doesn't realise what he's asking her to do. No doubt in his head it's all neat and tidy. They were good together once, so they will be again. They love each other, so that's all that matters. He did wrong, but he really is sorry, and so of *course* she's going to forgive him. Why wouldn't she? It's surely just a matter of time.

So all he's asking, all he's really asking, is that they just step the timetable up a little. That they put on a good show for the viewers. After all, the feelings are genuine, right? They're just exaggerating them a little, right? So where's the harm?

But every time she looks at him, she can't help feeling all over again the icy stab of betrayal, the sting of humiliation. she doesn't even know *why*, not really. It's a conversation they've just never really gotten around to having. Was she not good enough? Not a good enough wife? Not a good enough woman? Why did he need all those others, all those silly, starstruck girls, when he had her?

They made each other a promise. And he broke it.

Now he's asking her to voluntarily open herself up to that pain, again and again. To let the congealed mass of ice inside her heart grow thicker and thicker, freezing her from the inside out. If she does this, if she agrees to work with him, then she's going to have to pretend to the world that what he's done to her doesn't *matter*. That she can shrug it off as if it was nothing. Trivial. Unimportant.

That she can *forgive* him.

Is she going to have to smile at him? To let her eyes sparkle with love? To kiss him? To let him touch her? Not just once, but again, and again, and again.

All the while, growing colder and colder, until she's frozen all the way through.

But she can't tell him any of this, because he just doesn't *understand*.

How can he? Sometimes she doesn't even understand herself any more.

"I'll think about it," is all she can bring herself to say. Her words sound dull and lifeless to her own ears, but he doesn't seem to notice. At least, he doesn't say anything, or react visibly. "Send me your ideas and we'll talk. That's all I can say right now."

"Great. I'll do that." He's relaxed again now, apparently satisfied with that response. "Thank you, Alicia. I do appreciate this."

"You're welcome," she says. What else *can* she say? Reiterate that she isn't promising anything, that she hasn't agreed to help him. That she might *never* be able to forgive him?

It won't help.

She's exhausted, and upset, and she just wants to go *home*. Setting her tragically unfinished cup of excellent coffee down on the table, she gets to her feet.

"I need to go," she says.

He nods, also standing up. "I'll see you out," he replies. He doesn't bother to put his helmet back on as he takes her back up to the roof, holding the door open for her as she steps out into the cold night air.

"Goodbye, Peter," she says, feeling an unexpected pang when he grins at her, the expression making his face look surprisingly boyish. Almost innocent. 

"Goodbye. Fly safely."

"I will." Automatically, she smiles back at him, then turns and heads out onto the rooftop, preparing to make her exit. She's listening for the click of the door closing, but it doesn't come. Instead, she hears Peter's voice.

"It was good to see you, Alicia. I've missed you."

But there's nothing she can say to that, nothing she wants to say, and so she simply pretends she hasn't heard him speak, launching herself into the sky and away.

It's just easier that way.

And the only reason her eyes are damp is because of the scouring wind of her passage.

Only the wind, that's all.

What else could it be?

 

* * * * *

Mr Magnetism sprawls on a sofa, apparently watching television. It isn't clear what's on, but he snaps his fingers and the screen abruptly turns dark and silent.

"Well, that was interesting," he drawls. He raises his eyes to Blacklight, who is standing in the middle of the rec room looking anxious. "Is there any particular reason why you felt I needed to see it?"

Blacklight stares at Mr Magnetism, disbelief stamped across his face.

[Don't overdo it, Julius. You're not going for an oscar here.]

"Oh, *I'm* sorry. I just thought you might want to know that your 'private moment' with Lady Liberty was being broadcast to the world."

He looks at Mr Magnetism as if he's expecting some sort of reaction, but all he gets is a languid shrug and a "Thanks."

Blacklight frowns at Mr Magnetism, from him to the television and back again. "So, do you think he's seen it yet?"

"Who?"

A roll of the eyes. "Captain Corruption, of course. Who did you think I meant?"

"I really don't know. Honestly, I don't much care." Mr Magnetism uncurls from the sofa and strolls over to the kitchen, seemingly oblivious to the way Blacklight is shaking his head, looking concerned.

[Of course, you can ham it up all you like, Will. That's great. Keep chewing that scenery.]

"You need to be careful, M. You know he's not just going to let this go. When he sees it he's going to..."

He trails off, folding his arms and frowning ominously.

[Ah, the patented Blacklight glower. Perfect.]

Mr Magnetism roots around in the fridge for a moment, coming up with some eggs. He holds them up to Blacklight with an enquiring look, but the other hero shakes his head. Mr Magnetism shrugs and proceeds to assemble some other ingredients, plus various utensils. From the looks of it, he seems to be making an omelette.

Blacklight tries again, frustration adding an edge to his words. "He's going to take this as a declaration of war."

"Maybe it is."

For a moment or two, Blacklight seems lost for words, but then he rallies himself. "You should be more careful. You know he has a temper. Remember what happened last time you tangled with him..."

Cracking the eggs into a mixing jug, Mr Magetism smiles winningly over his shoulder at Blacklight. "I know what I'm doing," he declares, confidently.

"But-"

"Relax, Blacklight. I've got this. Anyway, what can he do to me, really?"

If anything, Blacklight looks even grimmer.

"It's not you I'm worried about."

[And... I think that's a sufficiently ominous note to end on. That's a wrap. Thanks, boys. Now, lets see if we can turn this potential disaster to our advantage.

I swear, when Kalinda tracks down whoever planted that camera, there is going to be a reckoning. Oh yes. My wrath will be like unto the wrath of god himself. My fury will-

What? Oh, yes. That's a wrap, Jerry. Get the tape out there as soon as it's done.

Now, where the hell is Alicia?]

 

* * * * *

 

Alicia touches down on the roof of the Heroes, Inc tower with a sigh that seems to reach to her very bones. It's not actually that late, really, but she's utterly exhausted. All she wants is a hot bath and then bed, and she's tired enough that she's tempted to skip the bath.

"Hey."

She can't help twitching a little at the voice out of the darkness, but she relaxes again almost immediately when she realises the identity of the speaker. A genuine smile spreads over her face as she turns to face the shadow that's detaching itself from among the other shadows.

"Hi Kalinda. Have you come to welcome me home?"

"Kind of," replies Kalinda and, just like that, Alicia knows that something's wrong.

"What is it?" she says, concerned. "What's happened."

"Do you have a phone or other comms gear on you?"

Alicia blinks at the apparent non-sequitur, but she shakes her head. "No. Nothing." She didn't have to wear a tactical headset for this evening's 'mission,' but she *was* supposed to take her phone along. However, in all the fuss of getting ready she 'accidentally' managed to leave it behind in her rooms.

Such a pity.

Kalinda pulls out the little device she showed Alicia before, in her apartment, fiddles with the settings for a moment or two and makes several slow passes with it, scanning Alicia from head to toe. The lights remain a steady, reassuring green. After a few moments, Kalinda nods to herself and stows the device away once more.

"You're clean. Good."

Alicia frowns. "You thought I might be bugged?"

"Better safe than sorry."

"I guess, but-"

"Might be a good time for you to pay that visit to your brother," Kalinda interrupts. Her tone is casual, almost bored, but Alicia can tell that she isn't.

She really, really isn't.

"Why? What's going on?" A sudden panic grips her. "Is he okay?"

"Owen's fine. But you don't want to be here right now."

"Why?" she asks, once more. "Kalinda, what's wrong?"

In answer, Kalinda takes her phone out of her pocket and fiddles with it for a moment before handing it to Alicia. "This footage hit the internet shortly after you left here. It's already made it to the airwaves."

"What is it?" Alicia asks, frowning.

"Just watch."

She hits play, sees herself, sees Will. Sees the two of them. Talking. Standing close to each other. It looks so... intimate. So private.

"How?" she breathes, as Kalinda retrieves her phone from Alicia's suddenly slack fingers. "Who got this footage? I thought the cameras were off. I thought-"

"Someone planted a camera in the green room," Kalinda breaks in. "Stand-alone, wireless-enabled." Her jaw tightens a little. Alicia has the feeling that if Kalinda were anyone else, this would be the point at which she'd start yelling and throwing things. But she isn't, and she doesn't. "I'm looking into who did it. I'm going to find them, Alicia." Fiercely, she adds. "They will regret this. I promise."

Through her anger, through the skin-crawling sense of being violated, of having her rare, precious privacy invaded like in this manner, Alicia can't help but feel oddly warmed, oddly touched by this. She has absolute faith that Kalinda can and will do exactly what she says she can. She doesn't doubt it for a second.

"Is it bad in there?" she asks, softly.

Kalinda nods. "Eli's in damage control mode. Everyone's running around like headless chickens." Almost as an afterthought, she adds. "Will's furious. Blames himself for not spotting the camera."

"Shouldn't I go down there?" Alicia asks, hesitantly. "I mean, if it's all hands on decks..."

Kalinda raises her eyebrows, just a little. "Do you want to?"

"Well, no. No, of course I don't. But Eli might need me to..."

"Tomorrow, maybe. Not right now." Much to Alicia's surprise, Kalinda reaches out, placing a hand on her shoulder. Her voice is gentle and sympathetic. "Trust me. You don't want to be in the middle of that."

"No." Alicia reaches up, covering Kalinda's hand with her own, surprised at the jolt that goes through her at the contact, at the rush of warmth, of *friendship* that she feels inside. Kalinda is so good to her. "No, I suppose I don't." They stand there like that for a few moments, the two of them joined together in silent communion, and then Kalinda steps away.

"You should text Owen," she says, pulling out yet another phone from her pocket. "Use this phone. He's expecting you to contact him from this number."

"He is? But how- I mean..."

"You said you needed a secure phone."

"Yes, but I wasn't expecting... I mean, I didn't..." Alicia makes herself stop rambling, forcibly gathering her scattered wits. She lets Kalinda press the phone into her hands. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Kalinda ducks her head, an unreadable expression on her face. "You're welcome. My number's in there if you need me."

"I'll remember that." Alicia writes the text to Owen. It doesn't take long. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Silence enfolds the two women as they wait for Owen's reply. Unlike their usual comfortable silences, this one seems different, oddly tense. But Owen's reply arrives before Alicia can pluck up the courage to ask if something else is the matter, distracting her from the peculiarity.

"He says it's okay," she says, relieved. "He's going to meet me at the motel. He's even got me a change of clothes." She looks down at her dress, smiling ruefully. "Probably just as well. This is a little conspicuous, isn't it?"

"You look beautiful," Kalinda murmurs, and it's oddly disorienting to hear her echo Peter's words, but before Alicia can figure out how to respond to that, Kalinda smiles wryly and adds. "Not exactly in stealth mode, though."

"Right." A thought suddenly strikes Alicia, and she looks about her worriedly. "Are you going to get in trouble for this? The cameras..."

"Are taken care of. And the security guard owes me a favour. As far as anyone else knows, you simply didn't come back tonight. So don't worry."

"What if they think *I'm* in trouble? What if they launch a manhunt or something?"

"If they start to panic too much, Eli will get a message from you saying you've got some thinking to do and you'll be back in the morning."

"But how will I- Oh. Thank you. Again." Her thanks seem so... inadequate. But what else can she say? How else can she so how grateful she is for Kalinda's help? For her friendship? "What should I say when they ask me where I've been?"

"The truth. You had to get away for a while and you decided to visit your brother. Perfectly understandable. And I'll be able to confirm it when Eli asks me to investigate."

"Oh." Alicia frowns. "This isn't going to be bad for Owen, is it?"

"Shouldn't think so. The two of you are known to be close. It makes sense that you's want to see him after an upsetting experience like tonight." Kalinda gives a small, wry smile. "It's the perfect cover, actually."

"I guess so," Alicia says slowly, wondering just who, exactly, knows that she and Owen are close. How many people have been digging into her life? What else are they keeping tabs on?

Kalinda's tone turns businesslike, distracting Alicia from those niggling concerns. "I'll contact you if anything comes up, or if you really are needed back here tonight. Otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," Alicia replies, warmly. "And thanks again for all your help."

"It's... You're very welcome."

Alicia feels like she should say something else, but she doesn't know what.

So she turns and flies away.

She doesn't see that Kalinda watches her until she's out of sight. She doesn't see Kalinda pull out her phone again. She doesn't see her scanning the roof warily as she scrolls through her contacts, selecting one in particular with barely a single glance at the screen.

She doesnt hear Kalinda speak, her words clipped and cold.

"You and I need to talk..."

 

* * * * *

 

Title card:

 

Project: Prometheus Orange (Ref: PO-28071-513-72-V)

Series: TrHuLTE-5-17-B

Record Type/Number: Case study-Autopsy/#003-041-A

Subject(s): "Epsilon Dove" (PO/S#4.012/ED/M-PR/MM[El-W])

Principal Investigator: Professor Sir Jonathan Lethbrige-Shaw

Site: Porton Down

Date: 08/10/1943

 

The black slate lifts to reveal a small, white-tiled room. A row of large, solid-looking lockers lines one wall, and three gleaming metal tables form a neat row in the middle of the room. The middle table has a sheet-covered form lying still upon it. Professor Lethbridge-Shaw, attired in black rubber gloves and a dark surgical gown, stands at the end of this table. He nods at the camera.

"I am Professor Lethbridge-Shaw. Today I will be performing an autopsy on experimental subject Epsilon Dove, or ED. This young man underwent the Prometheus Orange protocol forty-five days ago. After initially making good -- even exceptional -- progress in controlling his developing para-abilities, he tragically died during testing earlier today."

He reaches for the sheet, and then pauses.

"I'm afraid that you are about to see is not for the faint-hearted. I apologise for any distress caused, but this is necessary if we are to understand what went wrong with the process, to prevent it from happening again." In a lower voice, he adds: "We must ensure that this young man did not die in vain."

He pulls back the sheet with a brisk motion, revealing the crumpled and bloodied body of subject Epsilon Dove. There is a tray of surgical intruments on a small wheeled table to one side of the professor, but he ignores them for the moment, bending over to conduct a surface examination of the body.

"The deceased is a caucasian male, eighteen years old. Aside from war wounds, he was previously in good health. Skin is pale and" -- he prods lightly at the body with his fingertips -- "fragile to the touch. This fragility also extends to the subject's bones, many of which appear to have collapsed or shattered." He points to the chest. "As you can see here, the chest cavity has caved in almost entirely. This occurred during attempted resuscitation."

He glances up towards the camera.

"I should add, for the record, that there is no suggestion óf culpability in that statement. Dr Smith and Nurse Williams did everything they could to save this man, and should be commended for their efforts. They could not possibly have anticipated that their patient would undergo such gross physiological changes over the course of their attempts at resuscitation."

The professor returns to his examination.

"Many of the surface blood vessels appear to have ruptured." He points at the relevant places. "Immediately prior to death, the subject suffered massive haemorrhaging throughout his body. In my opinion, the blood loss was so severe and so rapid, that recovery would have been doubtful even in the absence of his other complications."

He pokes, prods and scrutinises the body for a little longer, eventually, he straightening up to address the camera. "That concludes my surface assessment of the body," he announces. "Time to move on to the internal examination." Turning to the tray of surgical instruments, he selects a solid, heavy-seeming steel scalpel. Bending over the body again, brings the scalpel down and starts to cut.

The post-mortem examination seems to take a very long time. As Professor Lethbridge-Shaw makes the first incision, Dr Smith joins him, assisting where necessary. He occasionally makes observations of his own, although he alwsays defers to the professor. The two of them are meticulous, checking everything, making no assumptions when instead they can measure and test. Internal organs are examined in situ, delicately removed, examined again, weighed, and finally placed in jars of formaldehyde for preservation. Another gowned figure occasionally enters the frame, using a still camera to photograph every stage of the procedure.

Apparently, the professor doesn't believe in taking chances when it comes to documenting his work.

When they come to examine the brain, both the doctor and the professor are moved to exclaim aloud at what they find.

"My word," breathes the professor.

"It's full of holes!" Dr Smith exclaims.

"Quite." Professor Lethbridge-Shaw clears his throat. "The brain exhibits extensive atrophy, clearly visible to the naked eye. The tissue is also rather soft to the touch, much more so than would be expected at this stage." He frowns, leaning in to get a closer look. "It almost looks like spongiform pathology," he murmurs, more to himself than to the camera.

"Spongiform pathology?"

"Yes. So-called because it makes brain appear rather like a sponge." He smiles thinly, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Some wags refer to it as 'swiss cheese' pathology, but I don't care for the term. It's been observed in some rare cases of dementia, but is thought to develop over years, perhaps even over decades. It seems highly unlikely that ED could have had this degree of brain damage and shown no symptoms. On the other hand, it also seems unlikely that the pathology could have developed over the course of minutes, or even in the mere six weeks or so since he underwent the protocol. Most peculiar."

"This whole thing is most peculiar," mutters Dr Smith, shaking his head. "He was a normal, healthy young man. And now..." He gestures helplessly towards the body, clearly struggling for words.

"Indeed," sighs the professor. "Well, let us continue. Perhaps we will be able to shed some light on the matter."

They resume their work.


	6. Conspiracies

FBI agent Lana Delaney checks her watch as she hurries down the street, heels clicking like gunshots on the pavement. She's running late -- too many meetings and not enough hours in the day. Nevertheless, she pauses when she nears her destination, taking the time to touch up her make-up and to smooth down the stray hairs that have straggled loose during her headlong rush to get here. There's a brief flutter of anxiety in her stomach as she considers that *she* may already have given up and left, but she dismisses the thought as soon as it forms. *She* wanted this meeting. Lana told her it was going to be difficult to, ah, squeeze her in -- a brief smirk flutters over her lips at the phrase -- but *she* insisted.

She's not going to leave before she gets what she wants.

(Somehow, *she* always seems to get what she wants.)

Lana gives herself a final once-over and judges herself ready for battle. Putting away her mirror and make-up, she resettles her bag on her shoulder, lifts her chin, stands up straight, puts her shoulders back and strides confidently (more confidently than she really feels) towards her target.

It's dark inside the bar, at least compared to outside. Lana takes a few steps over the threshold and pauses for a moment as the door swings shut behind her, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. The place is surprisingly busy for this time of the day, knots of men and women (more of the former, even now) in business suits congregating in corners, around tables, at the bar waving their cards -- or even, more rarely, actual cash. They fill the air with the combined murmuring of their conversation, almost drowning out the (low, easy-on-the-ear classical jazz) music drifting lazily out from hidden speakers. The ubiquitous suits, the music and the abundance of dark, polished wood on display... It all screams -- well, politely states -- 'upmarket'.

Not what Lana would have expected at all.

She scans the room carefully, looking for a familiar figure amongst all the suits.

"Hey."

Only training and willpower stop Lana from jumping out of her skin at the low voice in her ear, the warm breath on the back of her neck. Curving her lips in a smile -- more of a smirk, really -- she turns slowly, refusing to step back even an inch, keeping this up close and personal.

"Hello there," she purrs, her gaze finding dark, inscrutable eyes. "Fancy meeting you h-"

"This way," the other woman interrupts, abruptly turning on her heel and striding towards a shadowed corner.

Lana frowns after her for a moment, but then shrugs and follows her lead. 'Oh well,' she thinks to herself, philosophically accepting this confirmation that *she* is, in fact, just as pissed off with Lana as she was expecting. 'At least I get to enjoy the view...'

Kalinda Sharma: a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in sexy, sexy leather.

Lana blatantly and unashamedly admires Kalinda's long, lithe legs. Her eyes travel up, from the firmly-muscled calves encased in stiletto boots (she remembers just how firm those muscles are), over bare skin, dark and smooth (like silk under her fingers) and still upwards, drawn to where the tight black miniskirt clings to the curve of Kalinda's rear. She caresses Kalinda with her eyes, feeling a thrill of anticipation low in her belly as she wonders if, later, she'll be able to do more than just look.

Sure, Kalinda's mad at her, but that's never stopped them before.

Belatedly, she realises that Kalinda has stopped walking. Smirking, Lana makes a point of trailing her gaze up over Kalinda's body as she raises her head, ready to meet Kalinda's eyes. She doesn't even make a token effort to hide her appreciation.

Except Kalinda doesn't even *look* at Lana. She just turns and slides into the shadowed booth beside them, settling herself onto the bench like she *owns* it; like she owns this whole fucking *place*.

Abruptly, Lana is also fighting mad.

Who is Kalinda fucking Sharma to summon *her* like this? She's a special agent in the FB fucking I for crying out loud! *Kalinda* -- if that even is her name -- won't even confirm which three letter agency she damn well works for.

'Joint task force, my left tit!'

"Sit down," Kalinda murmurs, for all the world like she was talking to a goddamn dog.

For a brief, petty moment, Lana thinks about refusing, about looming over Kalinda like judgement. About demanding a straight answer for once. About turning on her heel and storming out of there.

She lets the anger bubble up, filling her almost to bursting point... and then deliberately lets it recede once more.

(It's still simmering down there in her depths, of course, ready for her to call on when she needs it; when she needs the edge it gives her. But this isn't that time.)

(Not yet.)

She's made her decision. For now, she'll continue to play this game. The stakes are too high for her to walk away.

Besides -- she's having fun.

Lana takes the bench across from Kalinda.

"So..." she drawls, smiling wryly as she meets the other woman's gaze. "What do you want?"

 

* * * * *

 

Alicia sighs deeply, leaning her forehead against the bathroom wall, enjoying the smooth coolness of the tiles against her shower-warmed skin. Now that she finally feels like she has a moment to herself, she notices a... a tightness in her head. A pressure. Not quite a headache, not really, but still... uncomfortable. And unusual. She simply doesn't *get* headaches any more.

Maybe it's the stress.

She concentrates a little, kicking her natural healing rate up a notch, and the discomfort quickly fades.

It probably was just stress.

She lets her regeneration dwindle back down to baseline, but remains where she is, leaning against the wall. Eyes closed, she clears her mind as best as she can, concentrating on nothing more demanding than breathing.

Just breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

No stress. No wondering whether or not she's being recorded right now. No worrying about storylines, or publicity, or whatever damnfool thing Eli and his people are going to spring on her next.

Distantly, a part of her mind is murmuring that Eli must be utterly *frantic* by now, that she should call someone, that she should at least let Will know she's okay, but she pushes the thought away.

'Kalinda will handle it,' she tells herself, finding a sudden smile on her lips. 'Just breathe.'

Just breathe.

Time passes; she's not sure how long. Minutes, maybe. Or a lifetime. Long enough that she's starting to think about moving from this spot, about leaving this fortress of solitude.

There's a knock on the bathroom door.

"Alicia?" She can hear the concern in Owen's voice. "Hey Sis, are you okay in there?"

"I'm fine, Owen," she says, smiling as she pushes away from the wall and reaches for the towel. "Stop fussing."

"I'm not fussing," he sniffs. "The shower stopped ages ago, that's all. I thought you might have fallen asleep on the rug."

"Well I didn't."

Owen grunts at that. "I've ordered take-out," he says.

"Already? But you didn't even ask me what I wanted," she protests half-heartedly.

"Like you don't always order the exact same thing," he scoffs.

"I do not."

"Do too."

"I don't, but thank you."

"You totally do. And you're welcome. I ordered extra, too. I know you metahumans need more food than us ordinary Joes."

Absurdly, her throat tightens and her eyes prickle, threatening to spill over with an overwhelming rush of gratitude at him for taking care of dinner.

For taking care of her.

(Okay, maybe it isn't so absurd after all.)

But she is *not* going to cry. Not over this. So she splashes some water on her face and pulls herself together, vigorously towelling her hair as if she can remove all this silly sentimentality along with the water. She's just tired, that's all. It's been a trying day. Few days. (Weeks, months, years...) *Time*.

"I'll be out in a minute," she calls to Owen. "Less if you stop distracting me."

"Yeah, whatever."

She grins as she pictures the expression that Owen usually has when he's using that *particular* tone of voice on her.

"If you keep rolling your eyes like that, they're going to roll right out of your head one of these days," she can't resist sing-songing, just like she used to when they were children. And, well, when they weren't children any more.

There's silence for a moment, and then: "How did you...?" His voice sounds wary, maybe even awed, and then excitement takes over as he continues. "Hey, do you have X-ray vision? Did you get more superpowers when no one was looking? Can-"

"It's called the power of being your big sister, baby brother. Believe it or not, I do actually pay attention to you sometimes."

"Oh," he says, a world of disappointment in that one word. Now it's Alicia's turn to roll her eyes. Apparently, some things never change.

 

* * * *

 

"This is going to change everything," Alicia murmurs. She's clutching the thick envelope so tightly that her knuckles have turned white, as if she thinks it's suddenly going to come to life and make a break for freedom. Taking a deep breath, she tries to make her feet start working again, but they seem to have rooted to the spot.

"Isn't that kind of the point?" Will flashes her a brilliant smile. He reaches out towards her, and for a brief moment she thinks he's going to take her by the hand, but he instead he gently grasps her elbow, pulling her along with him as he strides towards the post office. "I thought you wanted to change the world."

"I did," she says. "I do," more strongly. "I just..." She sighs. "I think I'm having second thoughts."

"Now?" He quirks an eyebrow at her. "You've already submitted your online application. What's to have second thoughts about?"

The campus post office seems to loom in front of her, the normally unimposing building seeming to shift in her mind’s eye so it's as if she's approaching the hall of judgement itself. To counter the butterflies in her stomach, she tries to make her voice bright and confident.

It's more or less successful.

"I bet there isn't a student at Georgetown who hasn't at least partially filled out that application form. I bet a lot of them have even submitted it, too. But Heroes, Inc doesn't even look at the applications until they've received the supporting documentation. So, this?" She hefts the envelope, feeling the papers within shift and slide as she brandishes it at Will. "This makes it real."

Will's smile softens, and he moves around to stand in front of her, bringing them both to a halt.

"Are you nervous?"

"A little." She manages a slightly tremulous smile. "It's that obvious, huh?"

"Only to someone who knows you." His smile fades, and she's almost startled to realise that Will Gardner, class clown, can actually look serious. (It's even more of a surprise to realise that the look suits him.) "Look, Alicia, I know this started as a bet, but the thing is... “He lets go of her arm to reach up and brush a stray hair out of her eyes. “I think you'd make a good superhero."

The moment stretches, seeming as if time itself has stilled, like there's no one else in the world but the two of them. Will's eyes are wide, almost startled-looking as they gaze into hers, like she's somehow managed to catch him by surprise. Her heart is suddenly racing, her cheeks warm -- undoubtedly flushed -- and suddenly, like it's been there in her mind all along, just lying in wait for a moment like this, her mind stumbles over the thought that if she just... leaned... forward-

Wait!

What is she thinking? Will has a *girlfriend*. She can't be thinking about... (kissing him) whatever it was she was thinking about when he has a girlfriend. She *likes* his girlfriend. Anyway, even if she didn't, she wouldn't do *that*. She's not that kind of person.

To cover her confusion, Alicia drops her gaze to the envelope full of supporting documents for her application, readjusting her grip on it as if it had been about to fall. When she looks up again, the moment has passed, and Will is shaking his head at her, an amused grin on his face.

(And if there's the remainder of that soft, startled look in his eyes, well, it's probably just the light. Nothing more.)

"With the death grip you have on that thing, I don't think you're going to drop it. Certainly not without noticing."

"Just making sure," she says, primly. Taking a deep breath, she turns slightly a starts walking. This time it's Will who is drawn along in her wake. They walk in silence until they're almost at the door, but then she can't hold back the question any longer. "Do you really think I'd make a good superhero?"

Will laughs. "I think you'd make a *great* superhero." His smile turns wry. "And I'm not *just* saying that because I want to see you in spandex."

That startles an answering laugh out of her and, abruptly, the lingering awkwardness from that almost moment earlier is gone as if it had never been. She elbows him in the side, framing a snappy retort, but then a sudden realisation drives the words right out of her mind.

"Oh! We're here."

"So, what are we going to do? Go in, or go back?"

She shoots him a look. "I'm deciding for both of us now?"

"Terms of the bet. If you go through with it, I go through with it. So..." He gestures at the door. "Lady's choice."

Alicia reaches for the door, hesitates, takes a deep breath, almost turns away, and then abruptly makes up her mind. Grasping the handle firmly, she pulls the door open and then gestures Will through it.

"Let's go become superheroes."

 

* * * *

 

Later, as Alicia and Owen are eating steaming hot take-away right out of the cartons, Alicia muses how much she's missed this. How long has it been since she and Owen just hung out? 'Too long,' she thinks firmly, resolving to try to meet up more often. Sure, he's apparently under surveillance by mysterious spooks. And sure, if Eli had his way, none of the heroes would leave the Tower for anything other than official business. But they can figure something out. They're both resourceful people. They can do this.

(Especially with Kalinda's help. And she probably will help, if Alicia asks.)

Belatedly, she realises that Owen has stopped eating and is watching her with what seems to be utter bewilderment. His eyebrows have climbed so high that they practically disappear into his hairline.

"What?" she asks, putting her empty carton aside and looking longingly at the remains of his. "Are you going to eat that?" 

He shakes his head, mutely pushing it towards her. "Thanks," she says, starting to dig in.

"Where are you putting it all?" he asks, his voice low and awed as he considers the small mound of empty cartons stacked neatly beside her.

"You did order all this," she points out.

"I know, but-"

"You do know I have a ridiculously high metabolism these days."

"Yes, but... But..." He shakes his head. "It's one thing to *know* that, and another to actually see it in action. And you even had dinner already!"

Alicia just shrugs and carries on eating. Owen continues to watch, which makes her feel a little self-conscious, but she pushes that feeling aside. She does need the calories -- sometimes it seems like she's always hungry these days -- and at least he's not pulling faces. His expression is turning serious, however, and she sighs inwardly, knowing that she won't be able to put off the grown-up talk any longer. Gossip, generic catching-up and sibling banter can only take you so far. Still, she can't help lingering over the last few bites, savouring her remaining moments of peace.

'The calm before the storm,' she thinks, wryly.

But she can only stretch dinner out so far, and soon enough there's no food left to linger over. She automatically clears the debris, dropping the cartons and chopsticks into the trash. At least there's no washing up to be done.

"How are you doing, 'Licia?" Owen asks, studying her with genuine concern as she stretches out on one of the beds.

She shrugs. "Doing okay, more or less." Her heavy sigh seems to come all the way from her bones, and she's actually a little shocked at how exhausted she sounds when she continues: "Apart from my train-wreck of a love-life."

Owen winces sympathetically. "You know I never liked what's-his-face anyway, don't you?"

"I know." Tucking her hands behind her head, Alicia lays back on the pillows and stares blankly at the ceiling. "He wants me to forgive him." She sighs again. "He wants us to be a... a... an 'us' again."

The silence that follows that stretches on so long that she has to look over at Owen to check whether he's fallen asleep. He hasn't, but he's looking thoughtful. Serious.

"What do *you* want?" he asks softly.

Alicia laughs, the bitterness of it surprising her almost as much as the fact that there's anything in this whole mess that she can actually find funny.

"I don't know," she says. "I don't- No, wait, I take that back. I do know. I want *space*. I want time to actually come to terms with the fact that my husband *cheated* on me, without everyone and their dog feeling the need to chip in with their opinion. I want to decide at my own pace whether or not I can forgive him, whether or not I actually want him back. And I want it to be *my* decision, based on what's best for me and me alone. Not on what's best for *Peter* and for the whole goddamn *Story*!"

Her voice has gotten louder and louder until she's almost shouting by the end of it. Her chest is heaving and her eyes are burning with the effort of holding back tears that she refuses to shed. She will not cry over Peter.

She won't.

She *won't*.

She's so caught up in her internal struggle that she jumps a little when Owen puts him arms around her, instinctively starting to pull away before letting herself relax into the embrace.

"It'll be okay," he murmurs, rubbing her back soothingly. "It will all be okay. Just kick their asses. Peter. Will. The bastard who shot that footage. All of the asses. You kick them."

That startles a somewhat tremulous laugh of her. "Even Eli's?" she asks.

*Especially Eli's," Owen says firmly, only to wonder, a beat later: "Who's Eli?"

Alicia laughs again, more firmly this time. "Eli is kind of the guy in charge of my team. He runs the Chicago branch of Heroes, Inc."

"I thought the Iron Lady was in charge?"

"Diane has operational command, but Eli's responsible for overseeing everything to do with PR, publicity and profit. He has the final say on anything to do with the Narrative."

"In that case, you should definitely kick his ass."

"I should," Alicia agrees, but she knows she won't. Much though she sometimes wants to. Very, very much indeed.

Owen starts to say something, then stops, then tries again. "What about Will?"

She shrugs helplessly. "I don't know. I just don't know. I mean, I do like him, but..." She sighs softly. "Everything's just so complicated."

"And you're... No, never mind."

"What?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"Owen!" She lifts her head and looks him sternly in the eye. "Stop dithering and just say what you were going to say."

"But I... It's... Oh, okay. Fine. If you must know, I was just wondering. Could the planted camera have been an inside job? Could Will have secretly known it was there? I mean, it's just... You have to admit it's compelling footage. Must have done wonders for your ratings." He mumbles something unintelligible and then finally subsides into awkward silence as she stares at him, utterly nonplussed.

Could he be right? Could Eli have arranged the whole thing, just to sell the love triangle a little more? Could Will have been in on it? But as soon as the thought crosses her mind, she's already dismissing it. No. She *knows* Will. She would have been able to tell if he was faking that. If he was playing to a hidden camera. She would have known.

(Besides, Kalinda didn't seem to suspect anything of the sort.)

She sits up, shuffling away from Owen and drawing her knees up, wrapping her arms around them.

"No," she says, quietly, but firmly. "He didn't know about the camera. And he wouldn't do that to me."

"Well, if you're sure," Owen says slowly. He doesn't sound entirely convinced, but he lets the matter drop. He gets up and crosses the room, flopping down in a somewhat threadbare-looking armchair. A sudden grin lights up his face. "You know, if men are giving you so much trouble, you could always go for a woman instead. Again."

She returns the grin. "Yes, because Eli would react *so* well to that. To say nothing about giving our poor parents heart attacks."

"You have to tell them sometime," he says, using that annoyingly reasonable tone that always winds her up so much. "You're, what, twenty-eight now?"

"Twenty-seven! And I do not."

"It won't be *that* bad. They coped just fine with having a gay son. More or less. Eventually. I'm sure having a bisexual daughter won't be that big a deal."

She shoots him a disbelieving look. "I'm the 'normal' one, remember?" The words slip out without her thinking about them, but then she freezes, realising what she's said. "Wait, I didn't mean-"

"Normal? You're the *normal* one?" Owen's voice is tight and angry. "So what does that make me?"

"I didn't mean it like that," she tries to say, but he keeps talking over her, not hearing.

"So, all those times you held me and told me there was nothing wrong with being attracted to men, that the pastor had his head up his ass... This... *this* was what you were really thinking?"

"No! Of course it wasn't. It *isn't*."

"Then why say it? You wouldn't have said it if you didn't mean it. If it wasn't what you were thinking all along. Is that the real reason you don't want to tell them? Are you ashamed?" He glares at her as she tries to find words he'll hear, words to explain what she meant. "Don't worry, Alicia," he says, his voice dripping with scorn. "Your feelings are perfectly *normal*. You should never be ashamed of who you are."

She winces at having her own words thrown back in her face. Not that she can really blame him. "I'm sorry," she says, hoping he'll listen this time, hoping he'll let her explain.

"What, for letting slip what you really feel about me? Because-"

"No, you idiot!" It's really fear more than exasperation that drives her outburst. Fear that she's managed to alienate Owen completely. Fear that he really and truly thinks that she secretly despises him. She pushes on while he's staring at her, looking slightly shocked. "I'm sorry I mis-spoke really, really badly. I'm sorry I hurt you." Her eyes start to sting, and this time she doesn't even try to keep the tears back. Reassuring Owen is much more important than keeping her composure. "I just... After you came out, Mom and Dad seemed to focus all their expectations, all their hopes on me. I was supposed to be the perfect daughter. I was supposed to go on to become someone's perfect wife. Someone's perfect mother. I mean, they wanted those things anyway, but they just got more... intense about it. It was even worse after they divorced. I tried so *hard* to be perfect for both of them, even when they tried to use me against each other." She shakes her head. "I got really good at being what they wanted me to be. Until I wasn't. Which they've only just started to forgive me for. Anyway, somewhere along the way, I suppose I internalised their idea of 'normal.' Not consciously," she hastens to add. "But, well, it's there."

"So you do think I'm not normal," he says, but the sharp edge of his anger seems to have dulled somewhat. She takes that as a hopeful sign and plunges onward.

"No, that's not what I was saying. It's more... I don't even think of it as applying to anyone else. Just me. And I would never, ever judge anyone or think badly of them for not living up to our parents' ideas of how people should live their lives." She sighs. "Just me."

Owen is frowning, but his expression seems to be one of confusion rather than annoyance. "But you don't even agree with all that Suzie Homemaker stuff. You were going to become a lawyer."

"I know! I didn't say it made any sense." She ventures a small smile. "So, I wasn't saying anything about you. It was just my parental issues raising their ugly head. Okay?"

It's his turn to sigh now. "That," he pronounces, shaking his head. "Is supremely fucked up, Alicia."

"I know," she agrees. "I'm sorry I upset you. Will you forgive me?"

"Wellllll..." He draws out the word, furrowing his brow and pursing his lips in a caricature of a thoughtful expression. But there's a twinkle in his eye, and Alicia allows herself to hope that it's going to be okay after all.

"Please?"

"Oh, okay," he says, his good humour apparently restored. (Only the slightest traces of that brittle hurt remain, there in the tilt of his head, or the tightness of his jaw. She knows this is a conversation they're going to have to return to sometime, but not right now. Maybe when the subject is a little less raw.) "And I'll even stop bugging you about coming out of the phone box."

She blinks. "Phone box?"

"A superhero's closet," he clarifies.

"Thank you so much," she drawls.

He shrugs, his expression serious again. "I think you should," he says quietly. "But I'm not going to go on about it. It's your decision, after all."

"Thanks," she says, not really knowing how to respond to that.

"You're welcome." He nods, shrugs and drums his fingers on the arms of the chair. "So..."

She waits for him to continue, but that seems to be all he has to say for the moment.

"So?"

"So." He shifts a bit in the chair, his expression altering just so, and she knows that it's time. "Lovely though it is to see my darling big sister again, I kind of got the impression there was something specific you wanted to talk to me about. And I doubt it was your love life. So... what's up?"

Alicia takes a deep breath, considering her words carefully. "You know how you've always claimed that Heroes, Inc is up to something... sinister?"

"I believe the word I used was 'nefarious'," he replies, looking intrigued. "But yes. Are you finally going to admit I'm right?"

"No! Well..." She sighs. "Kind of."

"Go on." He steeples his fingers before his face, looking so smug and self-satisfied that she could just... just... She doesn't know exactly, but she could just *something*. Something terrible. But she doesn't.

She is the responsible elder sibling, after all.

"I've come across some... troubling rumours," she says. "Rumours that say the company is carrying out unauthorised experiments on their heroes."

Owen is leaning forward in his seat now, all traces of humour gone completely. "Where did you come across these rumours?" he asks.

"Does it matter?" She wants to keep Kalinda out of this if she can. Not that she doesn't trust Owen, of course, but what he doesn't know can't be gotten out of him.

"Knowing the source of a piece of information can help you analyse it. So, yes. It does."

"They're being investigated," she hedges.

"By whom?"

"I'm not sure." Because Kalinda never did confirm exactly who she was working for. "Some government agency, I think."

"Hmm. Interesting. It would be better if we knew which agency in particular, but it's not the end of the world if we don't. I wonder..."

Owen falls silent for a long while, clearly lost in thought. The pause lasts long enough that Alicia starts to feel impatient, resisting the urge to drum her fingertips on the bed. She holds on as long as she can, but eventually she can't stand it any longer.

"Hey, are you falling asleep over there?"

"What? No, I'm *thinking*. Just putting a few things together. Making connections. Any idea how long this investigation's been going on?"

"Umm..." Alicia casts her mind back, trying to count up how long Kalinda has been working for Heroes, Inc. Sometimes it almost feels like they've been friends forever, but she's startled to realise that it's not that long at all, not really. She's known Will much longer. Peter, too, actually. "At least a year." Made careless by distraction, she continues: "That's how long they've had their agent in place, anyway."

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she realises her mistake. Cursing inwardly, she hopes Owen doesn't pick up on her slip, but he does. Of course he does; he's always managed to veer between infuriatingly oblivious and inconveniently perceptive when it suits him. She's more than half convinced he does it on purpose.

Owen blinks for a moment, and then his face lights up, his eyes sparkling with excitement. She's almost surprised he isn't rubbing his hands together with glee.

"An undercover agent?" he asks, but she can see he's already putting two and two together, and coming up with something in the vicinity of four.

"I didn't say that," she says, loading the words with all the authority she can muster. It isn't enough.

"So, Big Brother is watching Heroes, Inc," he murmurs softly. "Well, I suppose a stopped clock *is* right twice a day. Or once, if it's a twenty-four hour clock. But then, if it's digital, it'll just be flashing eights, or counting up from whenever it started again, so it will never be right again until it's reset. I guess this is just an analogue analogy. Heh."

"Owen."

"Oh. Right. Sorry. Undercover spook." He goes from distracted to laser-focused in the space of a breath, the analytical gaze he turns on her so intense, that if this was anyone other than Owen, she might almost feel nervous. "And you know about this how?" 

It takes a moment for her brain to shake itself out of its paralysis and start working; a moment's hesitation that she's sure Owen notices, and files, and factors into his analysis.

"I didn't say undercover," she points out, finally. "You said that. And we heroes do notice things. People talk, even about things they shouldn't. It isn't hard to pick up on rumours.

Every single word of which is technically true, even if the composite is somewhat misleading.

Owen rolls his eyes. "Alicia," he says, reproachfully. "Are you seriously trying to tell me that Heroes, Inc couldn't use some kind of legal mumbo-jumbo to kick out an open government watchdog in less than a year?"

She starts to object, but then just stops, sighs, and gives up. "No, I guess not."

Owen nods, looking only a little self-satisfied. "So how'd you make the spook? I assume the Company doesn't know about them..."

"Not as far as I know." And she really hopes that it's going to stay that way. (She hopes she hasn't spoiled things for Kalinda. And for their friendship.) "And, well, I didn't exactly make them. They, ah, they asked for my help. They needed... Umm, they needed someone on the inside." She takes a breath, adding, all in a rush: "But don't ask me who they are, because I shouldn't have said anything to you in the first place and I don't want you to poke at this and end up blowing their cover. I *mean* it, Owen."

"Huh," he muses, as if he's still half lost in his own thoughts. "Interesting. Can't be one of the metahumans; too high a profile, too much time accounted for. Not a section head for similar reasons, but must be someone who has decent access and reasonable mobility. HR, perhaps? Security?"

"Owen!" She can't help the panic in her voice, is actually, genuinely afraid that she might have compromised her best friend. Kalinda did say she could talk to Owen about this, but Alicia's pretty sure Kalinda never meant for her to tell him everything.

Owen blinks. "What?" he asks, guilelessly. "Oh," he continues, before she can reply. "Sorry. Habit. Don't worry, Alicia. I'm not going to blow the agent's cover. Their secret is safe with me. I was just wondering, that's all."

"Well, don't," she says, relief making her a little curt. She softens her sharp words with a smile. "Thank you. I probably said too much, I just..." She shrugs. "I need your help, Owen."

"Anything," he replies without hesitation, not even needing a moment to think about it. "Just tell me what you need. A safe house? Are you planning on making a run for it? I can figure something out. Access to discreet medical professionals to look for signs you've been experimented on? I know some people. I may be able to arrange something. You're on your own for ass-kickings, but there's lots of other stuff I can-"

"For starters," she interrupts. "How about some information?"

 

* * * * * *

 

Clip from a YouTube video posted by user TruthSeeker777:

An intense-looking young man stares directly into the camera, his expression earnest. His voice, when he speaks, is low and fervent. His passion is an almost tangible quality.

"What do we actually know about these so-called 'superheroes'? We're told they were made by military scientists, but were they really? Does that sound plausible to you? Does it make sense that a man in a white coat can mix up some stuff in a test-tube and magically give someone the power to defy the laws of physics? If that was really possible, why didn't they do it before? Why not deploy the prototypes in Vietnam, or in any one of the countless conflicts where American soldiers lost their lives in the name of perpetuating the great USian economic hegemony? I'll tell you why. It's because they're *lying* to us. Nobody created these... these *things*." He gestures dramatically, occasionally stabbing a finger towards the screen to punctuate his words. "I don't know exactly what they really are -- aliens, demons, whatever -- but I do know this. They are not! Of! this! Earth! And they are *not* our friends. They may seem attractive, and charismatic and -- yes! -- *heroic*, but it's all lies. Corrosion man showed us their true face, showed us all what really lies beneath that glorious facade. And the truth is: they're monsters!" He sits back, and his voice drops almost to a whisper. "They are all monsters. Every. Last. One. And we have to save ourselves from them before it's too late."

 

* * * * * *

 

If she hadn't jumped in, Owen could have gone on like this for hours. Belatedly, she realises that she's not the only one on edge here. For all of Owen's apparent confidence and good humour, he seems just as worried as she is. More, actually.

"Information. Right. Okay." Owen nods, then looks at her with raised eyebrows. "What do you want to know?"

That's a good question. What *does* she want to know? She wasn't really thinking in terms of specifics when she asked Owen to meet up with her, just that Kalinda seemed to be implying that he knew or had deduced something relevant; that there was actually something to his seemingly paranoid ramblings. Where should she even start?

Maybe it's best to begin at the beginning.

"Tell me about Heroes, Inc. What do you know about them? Why do you think they're up to no good?" Owen surges up out of his chair like someone's just lit a fire under his ass. "Owen?" she asks, puzzled. He scurries across the room to retrieve his backpack from the corner, hauling it up onto the table and starting to root through it.

"Bear with me just a minute," he says, distractedly. "I just need to..." His words trail off into an unintelligible mumble. He pulls out his laptop and a thick sheaf of papers, setting both of them on the table. "Here we go." He looks up at Alicia, flashing her a brilliant smile. "You want information? I have information."

Alicia moves up to sit on the edge of the bed, looking curiously at the worn, well-thumbed pages. The top one has the word 'confidential' stamped across it in thick, black, forbidding, official-looking letters.

"I'm listening."

"Okay. Right." Owen boots up the laptop and swivels a chair around to face Alicia. "Let's start with the potted history, shall we?" He barely even waits for her nod of assent before ploughing on. "So, the official story. A group of American scientists in the seventies were trying to enhance the body's natural healing processes, but their experiments had some unexpected side-effects. Right?"

"Right," she agrees, since he seems to want a reply from her.

"Wrong!" he crows, triumphantly. "Complete and utter bullshit! That project did exist, and those scientists were almost certainly involved in refining the process. But they *discovered* jack shit. That came earlier."

"How much earlier?"

"World War Two. And it wasn't the Americans, it was the Brits. They were working on a super-soldier programme." His gaze turns distant, thoughtful. "If you believe everything you read, it seems everyone and their dog had their own superhuman project at that time. Germans. Russians. Americans. Japanese. Chinese. Hell, there are even rumours about the French."

Alicia frowns. "So, if it's been possible to make heroes since the Second World War, why didn't they start rolling them out until the eighties?"

"Because it took that long for the scientists to come up with a process they could actually use." He runs his hand over his hair, making it stick up every which way. She has to resist the urge to smooth it down again, not wanting to interrupt him mid-flow. "First thing is, all superhuman programmes I mentioned? They failed. Oh, they probably led to some advances in medicine and food supplements and what not, I guess. But making supersoldiers? Nu-uh. No go."

"Except the British project?"

"Except the Brits," he confirms. "And that's the weird thing. Not that they were the ones to do it," he adds hurriedly. "But that *anyone* did. I mean, think about it. World War Two was practically the dark ages as far as biological modification went. They barely even knew about DNA! Watson and Crick wouldn't figure out its structure for over a decade!"

"And Franklin."

"Huh?" Owen looks completely nonplussed.

"Rosalind Franklin did a lot of that work," Alicia says softly. "Even if she didn't get the Nobel prize."

A fragment of a memory flitters through her mind. High school. Doing her homework at her best friend's house. (Her own house was too much a war zone back then, and her parents were taking no prisoners.) Jeanette's voice rising indignantly at the injustice of it all, swearing that she wouldn't stand for that kind of nonsense when *she* was a world-leading geneticist. Or biochemist. Or pharmacologist. Idly, Alicia wonders what Jeanette is doing now.

Owen is looking at her strangely. "Um, sucks for her, I guess," he says, and it takes Alicia a moment to realise that he's talking about Rosalind Franklin, not Jeanette Davenport. "*Anyway*, that's not important right now. The important thing is that the Brits had some kind of breakthrough that let them succeed where so many others failed." He pauses there, looking expectantly at Alicia.

"What kind of breakthrough?" she asks, obediently.

"That's the million dollar question!" he proclaims, flinging his arms wide and then having to scrabble for the laptop he almost sends skidding right off the edge of the table. "No one knows," he carries on, this time without exuberant gestures. "Well, presumably the people involved do, but they've managed to keep it a secret from the uninitiated. There are theories, though. Lots of theories. Let me see..."

He takes a deep breath. "A natural or man-made chemical. A parasite. An ancient parasite. An alien parasite. An extra-dimensional parasite. Or virus, or bacterium, etc., etc. and etc. Some kind of biological agent. Advanced alien technologies. Advanced Atlantean technologies. Quantum entanglement with an alternate reality that has different laws of physics. Radiation, or ultrasonic frequencies, or strobing lights. Controlled electrocution. Activating a previously dormant part of the brain. Opening the third eye to harness the power of chi. The power of positive thinking. The power of prayer!" Owen grins, suddenly. "Believe it or not, there are cults that believe you 'heroes'" -- he actually makes the air-quotes -- "are actually the hosts for angels. Or demons."

"I know," Alicia sighs. The heroes may be shielded from the worst of the so-called 'fan mail,' but she's seen more than enough to know that's not the craziest stuff out there. "So, were you planning on coming to the point any time soon, or are you just planning on running down the list of every conspiracy theory ever?"

"Well, excuse me for trying to provide a little context!" Owen sniffs. "Okay. So. However the Brits did it, they did it. They made honest to god -- or something -- superhumans. Go them. There was just one tiny problem: all of their test subjects died."

Alicia blinks. "All of them?"

"Every single one. Pretty gruesomely, too."

"I thought you said this project succeeded? Gruesome death does *not* sound like success to me!"

"It was a success in that the subjects really did develop superpowers. Some pretty impressive ones, too. There was this one guy, he could phase through solid objects, just like Kitty Pryde. How cool is that?"

"Who?" Alicia asks, frowning. "I don't think I know her. Which team is she with?"

Owen rolls his eyes. "She's one of the *X-Men*, Alicia. A fictional hero, not a real one."

"Oh." She resists the urge to sigh and mutter something about not being as much of a geek as him.

"*Anyway*, it was pretty much the same story every time. Over a period of time ranging from a few weeks to a few months, the test subjects developed funky abilities, became more and more powerful, and then just..." He shrugs. "They just died. Their bodies basically fell apart. I've got some autopsy pictures if you'd like to-" He breaks off and shakes his head abruptly. "No, never mind. Best not."

Alicia isn't sorry not to see the pictures. It's difficult enough to squash the images her imagination is trying to throw up.

"So, what happened next?" she prompts.

"They continued working on the project up even after the end of the war, but they never managed to solve the problem. Eventually -- around mid to late fifties, I think -- the Prometheus Project was shelved."

 

* * * * * *

 

Extract from the private journals of Professor Sir Jonathan Lethbridge-Shaw, Classified Top Secret:

"Today, I attended the funeral of the latest one of my recruits to perish in the line of duty. It was a quiet affair, as he had little in the way of living family and those that attended had, I surmise, already resigned themselves to the thought of losing him to the war. I wonder if any of them suspected that the ashes being interred this day belonged, not to their kin, but to some poor nameless soldier, never claimed and never likely to be. This deception sits ill with me, even as I acknowledge the necessity of it. If only our extraction techniques were more reliable, but alas, they are not; in the grand scheme of things, the crime of deceiving a grieving family pales next to the potential consequences should any of the Material be released without our control.

Still, I suppose there is at least one good thing to come of this tragedy. Although he may be buried under a name not his known, at least one lost soul was afforded a good Christian burial instead of the indignity of a mass grave.

I fear I have taken to somewhat bleak humour as a means of diverting myself from the grimness of this whole business. And why not? How many more of these men must I bury? How many more of these brave souls must make the ultimate sacrifice?

I find myself starting to doubt whether the potential of this project is worth what it has already cost, let alone what it may cost in the future. If successful, it will change the face of war forever; it will prevent this nation ever again losing so many of her sons in such numbers as during the Great War and the on-going conflict. Yet the deaths continue to mount up, weighing ever more heavily upon my conscience.

Are we truly doing the right thing? If we succeed, will not other nations seek to emulate our example?

What becomes of the common man when gods make war?

And what of the men who would make gods; who would twist and tear the natural laws asunder?

I do not have the answers to these questions, only the guidance of my duty and my conscience. And though my conscience may be heavy, my duty is clear: I must solve this conundrum. I must find out why these men are dying, and I must find a way to prevent it.

For king and country.

And may God have mercy on our souls."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tamoline and I are going to be interviewed on the Femslash4Fans live internet radio show on Sunday 24th February. We're not sure of the exact time yet, but it's probably going to be starting around 8-10pm UK time, or 3-5pm EST. More details, and the podcast after it has aired can be found [here](http://www.blogtalkradio.com/allaine) , though we'll also make a post on our [livejournal](http://tamoline.livejournal.com) when we have some firm details.


	7. Down the Rabbit Hole

The silence stretches for a long moment, long enough that the rest of the pub seems to recede into the distance, until it's just the two of them wrapped in a cocoon of shadows and secrets. Just when Lana is beginning to wonder if she should repeat her question, Kalinda shocks her by simply... smiling. Slowly, gracefully, she leans forward over the table, closing some of the distance between them. Lana can't help the way her eyes dart downwards, automatically drawn to the expanse of cleavage revealed by the Kalinda's movement. Shrugging inwardly, she makes the most of it, looking her fill before lifting her gaze once more, raising her eyebrows in unapologetic challenge when she once again meets Kalinda's eyes.

Kalinda's smile only widens.

Reaching out one hand, she wraps her long, elegant fingers around one of Lana's wrists, pulling gently until they're both occupying the unclaimed territory between them; the no man's land that is the table's surface. Lana's hand is caught between the cool smoothness of the polished wood and the yielding warmth of Kalinda's skin, the contrast -- and the memories it brings -- almost sending a shiver down her spine.

"I want so many things," Kalinda breathes, her voice so soft that Lana has to lean forward herself just to make out the words.

"Such as?" Lana murmurs.

"I want..." Kalinda's smile twists, turning predatory and dark, making the back of Lana's neck prickle with something that's part anticipation, part dread. "I want to know just what the hell you think you're playing at."

And suddenly, although Kalinda's tone hasn't changed a jot, although Lana didn't notice her so much as twitch, her hand isn't so much resting on the table as being flattened against it, all the pressure on that one spot that, with just the right amount of force, hurts beyond all proportion to any actual injury.

Kalinda *isn't* applying that amount of force -- not yet -- but she could. And, right at this moment, with that look on her face, Lana honestly has no idea whether or not she would.

"What am *I* playing at?" she hisses, because she'll be damned if she'll show anything as weak as uncertainty, especially to *her*. "What the hell are *you* playing at? Let go of me!"

She starts to pull away, but hesitates when Kalinda raises an eyebrow. Kalinda hasn't tightened her grip, but there's something about the look in her eyes. Something challenging. Something dangerous. In the end Lana stills, sitting up straight and glaring across the table. (It isn't that she *can't* break free, she consoles herself. She just doesn't want to cause a scene. And Kalinda... Kalinda looks like she's ready and willing to cause one hell of a scene.)

"I found your camera." Only now does Kalinda's smile fade, replaced by a mask so opaque that Lana thinks she could scrutinise it for a year without figuring out what lies beneath.

Lana keeps her eyes on Kalinda's. For a mad moment, she is tempted not to deny the accusation; to simply admit that she bribed one of the cleaning staff to place the camera. That she made the footage public. To simply tell the truth and damn the consequences. But that way lies madness.

"Oh?" she says, effortlessly modulating her expression of pure fury into one of confused fury. "What camera?" Kalinda stares at her in silence. She allows some enlightenment to filter in. "Is this to do with that clip showing things heating up between Mr Magnetism and Lady Liberty?"

The silence stretches some more, until Lana has to resist the urge to squirm restlessly beneath that stony gaze, but then Kalinda finally speaks. "It was compelling footage. I suppose you're feeling pretty pleased with yourself."

"You mean 'whoever got it' and 'themselves,' of course," Lana says. "It was okay, I suppose. The camera placement could have been better but, I suppose you just can't get the help these days." She manages a smile of her own, even though the muscles of her face feel stiff and tight. "What can you do?" Kalinda's eyes narrow minutely, but she doesn't respond. The moments drag by, turning into seconds, feeling like years. Lana bears it as long as she can, but then sighs. Leaning in a little, she lowers her voice. "Can we talk hypotheticals for a minute?" Kalinda tilts her head a little but says nothing, so Lana continues. "Hypothetically, higher-ups in the Bureau may have been starting to get antsy about the lack of any actual, measurable results from this highly political inter-agency collaboration. They might be starting to question its worth. Hypothetically. And, hypothetically, they might order an agent in the field to start kicking over anthills so they can see what scurries out."

Kalinda leans back a little, still maintaining her light, yet firm, grip on Lana's hand. "Are you trying to blow this whole thing sky high?" she asks quietly. Now, there is the merest flicker of an expression in her eyes. It looks like disgust. "*Hypothetically*," she adds, her tone scathing.

Lana feels her cheeks grow hot, but she keeps her head up and her shoulders back. She has nothing to be ashamed of. "Clearly someone had to do something." Now she lets her temper out to play a little, letting it stiffen her resolve; letting it give her words an edge that might actually penetrate the layer of ice that Kalinda -- infuriating, insufferable, arrogant, *desirable* Kalinda -- seems to have wrapped around her soul. "After all, you've been in there almost a year, and you've got *nothing*! At least, nothing that you've been willing to share with me..."

Lana imagines her suspicion flowing from her like a wave, for once expressing clearly the lack of trust between them. The lack of trust that she usually keeps tightly coiled up at the back of her mind. Because it's so much more interesting, so much more *useful* to act as though the two of them are on the same side.

Even though their co-operation -- this vaunted task force -- means nothing more than that their interests are compatible for a time.

Maybe that time is coming to an end.

(If it ever truly existed in the first place.)

Kalinda continues to study Lana coolly, apparently unfazed by the implied accusation. "So, hypothetically speaking, what would have been the aim of that little stunt? What would it have been intended to achieve?" she asks calmly. And damn her for not giving Lana a denial to rail against and to throw back in her face!

Damn her secrets and damn her paranoid need to be in control of *everything*.

Lana's cause is just. Can't Kalinda see that it's in everyone's best interests for her mission to succeed?

"If I had to speculate, I'd say it was supposed to stir things up a little," Lana grinds out. "Hypothetically." (She doesn't *have* to justify herself. But she will, for the sake of her mission. And because, depending on who Kalinda actually works for, laying as much of the blame at her superiors' feet as she can might just save her career somewhere down the line. It even has the advantage of being the truth.) "It may have been intended to see how the heroes and the company react under stress. And if they really are as out of control as we believe, then, hypothetically, there was a better than even chance this may provide a much-needed opening."

"So, you're saying you and your superiors are, hypothetically, prepared to risk another Corrosion Man incident to get the heroes programme back under government control?"

"No, of course not!" Lana's indignation makes it an effort to keep her voice low, but she just about manages. "Do you really think I'm heartless enough to deliberately risk provoking something on that scale?"

Kalinda shrugs. "Are you saying you're not?"

For a moment, Lana is so angry she can't speak. She takes a deep breath, wrestling back her self-control with an effort. "Fuck you, Kalinda," she growls. "You're the one who told me you don't think there's in immediate danger of process failure. It was a calculated risk." Belatedly, she remembers her legal fig-leaf. "Or would have been. Hypothetically."

Kalinda regards her inscrutably for a moment or two. "So, whoever took this action, and regardless of why they did it: did it pay off for *you*? Did it tell you anything *useful*?"

Lana pretends to consider her answer, buying herself a few necessary moments to recover her composure. "It's early days," she shrugs. "Neither Will Gardner nor Alicia Florrick seem to have gone ballistic just yet, although I understand that Alicia vanished mysteriously for several hours last night." She raises her eyebrows, inviting Kalinda to comment, but the other woman doesn't take the bait. "As for the company, I strongly suspect they've put their best investigator on the case." She winks at Kalinda, who remains unmoved. "But that's not all they're doing."

"Oh?"

"Are you sure you want to know?" Lana smiles, and she's sure it's not an entirely pleasant expression. "You'd lower yourself to using information potentially gotten using methods you disapprove of?"

"Tell me," Kalinda breathes, but before Lana can say anything, her hand is abruptly free again. Kalinda trails gentle fingers up her arm, over her shoulder, gently brushing her collarbone and stroking up the side of her neck until she's cupping Lana's cheek. "Please."

Wariness and pleasure war within Lana, but neither yet has the upper hand. Still, Kalinda did ask nicely this time... "Head office is thinking about sending an investigator of their own. Something seems to have gotten their panties in a wad..."

"Do you know who and when?"

"No and probably in a week or so." She shrugs. "I figure it'll take that long for the territorial pissing match to be settled."

Kalinda sighs softly, brushing her thumb over Lana's lower lip. "Why do you have to make my life so difficult?"

"Hypothetically, you mean?" Kalinda just looks at her. "It wasn't my intention." Honestly, she didn't even think it would. She might not trust Kalinda herself, but she does trust in her ability to survive turbulent times. "Anyway, this could be the break we've been waiting for. If the company is moving its pieces around, it might open up some leads."

"Or they might clam up tighter."

Frowning, Lana opens her mouth to protest, but Kalinda suddenly twines her fingers in Lana's collar and pulls, sharply. Before Lana quite knows what's going on, Kalinda's mouth is on hers, hot and forceful and demanding. Lana can't help but answer the passion with her own.

Somewhere at the back of her mind, a part of her notes wryly that this is by no means the worst way to be silenced.

She half-stands, her hands drifting up to rest on Kalinda's hips. There's a faint note of panic at the edge of her thoughts -- this is a public place; somebody might *see* (somebody might tell) -- but she's lost in the moment, lost in the kiss that seems to set her whole body ablaze, from her head down to her toes.

But suddenly, her lips are bereft, her hands grasping nothing but air as Kalinda slips effortlessly out of reach. Caught off-balance and off-guard, Lana wobbles precariously for a moment and then crashes down to earth, half-sprawling across the table in an undignified heap. She gasps for breath, passion flashing into shock, then dismay, and then finally into outright fury. Jerking her head upwards, she sees Kalinda standing there, perfectly composed. If Lana didn't know better, if she couldn't still taste Kalinda on her tongue, she would start to doubt that the two of them were practically devouring each other mere seconds ago.

"Oops, look at the time," Kalinda says softly, holding up a bare, watch-less wrist. "Got to run. Fallout to deal with. You know how messy hypotheticals can be." Her lips quirk in something that's not quite a smile. "Hold that thought, okay?" She inclines her head gracefully; a nod of farewell. Of dismissal. "See you around, Lana."

And then she *leaves*!

Lana is lying there, still half-shell shocked from being kissed within an inch of her life, gasping for breath, scrabbling for words that won't come, sprawled stupidly across a goddamn *table*...

And Kalinda just... walks away.

Who the *hell* does she think she is?

 

* * * * * *

 

"That's what it was called?" Alicia asks. "The Prometheus Project?"

"Yep. Actually, it was Project Prometheus Orange." Owen shrugs. "Weird military naming conventions. What can you do? So, that was apparently that for superhuman research. Except, of course, it obviously wasn't." That observation doesn't seem to need a response. "But before we move on to the next stage, there's a final, tragic footnote to the original project."

"Oh?"

"Thanks to a lot of diligent digging, we've managed to come up with a likely candidate for the scientist who was heading up the British research team at the time. Actually there's a shortlist, but I have a favourite: Professor Sir Jonathan Lethbridge-Shaw."

"That's a bit of a mouthful," she murmurs.

Owen shrugs. "I guess. I kind of like it, though. It's distinguished." He tilts his head, consideringly. "You know, I wouldn't mind a title or two myself."

"Professor Sir Owen Cavanaugh?"

"Heh. Something like that. Now, all I need to do is make Professor, and get myself knighted. Not necessarily in that order. How hard can it be?" A grin flickers over his features briefly, then fades into seriousness. "By all accounts, the good professor was fairly well-respected, both as a person and as a scientist." He quickly leafs through the pile of papers on the table, pulling out a slim manila folder. "Here." Reaching into the folder, he extracts a black and white photograph and hands it to her. "Third from the left."

The picture shows a group of five men wearing white lab coats. One of the men stands a little in front of the others; he seems to be in his fifties or so. The rest of them -- including the one Owen indicates -- are probably in their twenties. Mr Third-from-the-left is tall, dark and serious, his back ramrod straight, his eyes focused and intent.

"Handsome chap," she murmurs. "If a little stiff-looking." She passes the photograph back to Owen, who carefully slides it back into the folder.

"It was the dark days of the early twentieth century," he says. "They were supposed to look stiff in photos. I think it was, like, the law or something. Anyway, as I was saying, the Prof's family were rich; he could have lived a life of leisure if he'd wanted, but he chose to dedicate his life to science. He picked up a couple of degrees -- one of which was a medical degree -- did a PhD and then threw himself into full-time research."

"What was he researching?"

"Biological stuff. Something to do with..." Owen's gaze goes distant and he takes a deep breath, his next words having the sing-song cadence of something learned by rote. "The interaction of neural and hormonal systems in the regulation of human physiological responses. Or something like that."

"So, when did he start working on superhumans?" Alicia wonders. She also wonders when Owen is actually going to get to the point of this little digression, but that question she keeps to herself.

"Not until later. World War One came along, and the Prof went off to fight. When he came back, he picked up his research again, but with a slight change of direction. Now, he was focused on healing and recovery: how to improve the human body's repair and recovery mechanisms. He was particularly interested in injuries caused by chemical weapons, like mustard gas." Owen smiles mirthlessly. "Fun fact: mustard gas is also known as yperite, due to the fact the Germans used it at Ypres, in Belgium, in nineteen seventeen. Apparently our man was stationed there at the time."

"I see." Alicia leans forward a little, studying her brother, a little surprised at his intensity. "You're really interested in this scientist, aren't you? It looks like you've done a lot of research on him."

Owen shrugs. "Yeah, quite a bit. It's weird; I kind of feel like I know him, you know? Not at first, obviously. At first, it was just data. Since all the good stuff is classified, I had to dig through anything and everything else I could find. The more data you have, the easier it is to work out the shape of the holes in the picture; to try to figure out what fits there. Somewhere along the way, as I pieced together more and more of his life, he actually started feeling like a person to me." He shrugs again, looking a little uncomfortable. "I knew there was a reason I didn't become a historian."

Sensing the need to lighten the mood a little, Alicia smiles. "This isn't like your crush on Tesla, is it?"

Owen draws himself up, looking indignant. "I do *not* have a crush on Tesla," he proclaims. He seems to be aiming for 'dignified', but his indignation has made his voice a little too high-pitched for that.

"*Sure* you don't," she says, sarcastically. "It's just *scientific* excitement that puts a twinkle in your eye and a quiver in your voice whenever you talk about him."

Owen's face appears to be going very red, she observes with interest.

"I just think he's *cool*, okay?" he says loudly.

"Cool? I thought you said he was hot?"

"I! Do! Not!" he almost shouts, then he stops, takes a deep breath, and continues in a low voice. "HaveacrushonTesla." He glowers at Alicia, who looks guilelessly back at him. The staring match lasts a handful of seconds before Owen clears his throat loudly and shakes his head. (Which means Alicia wins, of course.) "*Anyway*," he says firmly. "World War Two hit, and Professor Lethbridge-Shaw joined the war effort. It's not clear whether he approached the Ministry, or they recruited him, but shortly after Germany invaded Poland, the Prof went to work at Porton Down."

"That place sounds vaguely familiar," Alicia murmurs, frowning as she tries to remember.

"It's a UK military research facility. You've probably heard me talk about it before."

"Probably." It does sound like the kind of thing her brother would be interested in. And would be interested in talking about.

"It's not clear exactly when he was put in charge of Prometheus Orange, but I wouldn't be surprised if he was recruited specifically for it. If not, it must have been pretty soon after he joined the MoD Squad."

She looks blankly at him. "Mod Squad?"

He rolls his eyes. "M. O. D. Ministry. Of. Defense. Try to keep up, Alicia!"

"Oh, I'm so *terribly* sorry," she says, her tone utterly deadpan. "I'll try to do better."

"See that you do," he murmurs, but it's clear his mind is only half on the obligatory patronising response. "So. Now we come to the tragedy I mentioned." He glances at her as if to make sure she's listening, and she makes sure to look attentive. She's pretty sure she's figured out where this is leading -- had done since the good professor's name first came up, in point of fact -- but Owen obviously wants to tell her. Besides, there might be details that aren't obvious. "A year or so after the project was apparently mothballed, Professor Lethbridge-Shaw was killed under mysterious circumstances."

Alicia nods gravely, her suspicions confirmed. "What kind of 'mysterious circumstances'?"

Owen doesn't speak right away. Instead, he reaches into the folder once more, pulling out a crumpled document and offering it to her. "Take a look at this."

She dutifully takes it from him, carefully reading the faded text. It seems to be a photocopy of an old newspaper article...

 

* * * * * *

 

Noted Scientist Murdered in his Home!

Yesterday, the distinguished scientist Professor Sir Jonathan Lethbridge-Shaw was found dead in his study, in his home in Salisbury. He had been the victim of an attack so brutal, so vicious that it had left him barely recognisable. His house had been ransacked, and it seems likely that he interrupted a burglary in progress.

According to a police spokesman, the nature of his injuries suggests that the attack may have been prolonged, with many wounds being inflicted over a period of time before he was brutally beaten to death. The police are unwilling to speculate on the reasons for this, but it seems probably that the burglars were seeking to obtain the locations of jewels or valuables from Professor Lethbridge-Shaw. Perhaps he could not or would not oblige them, and so they killed him in a rage.

Police are appealing for witnesses. Members of the public are advised to ensure that they lock their doors and windows, and to be aware of any strangers or suspicious persons in their neighbourhoods.

More on Page 5.

 

* * * * * *

 

Alicia reads the short passage through twice. She understands why Owen described this as a tragedy. And there's something else.

"You don't think this was a simple burglary, do you?"

Owen scoffs loudly at the thought. "Understatement of the century!" he exclaims. "No, I think someone figured out his connection to the Prometheus project and tried to torture information out of him. I just haven't been able to work out who did it."

She blinks at the odd note in his voice, almost like... "Do you really think you can?" she asks, her words ripe with disbelief. "The case is so cold it's practically arctic. And if it really was more than it seems, the perpetrators are bound to have covered their tracks well."

"I know," he sighs. "I didn't say my chances are high. But I'm giving it my best shot." He shakes his head as if to clear the cobwebs. "Anyway, that's enough about the Professor's messy demise for the moment. Let's talk about his legacy." Absently, he reclaims the photocopied article from her and returns it to the folder, which he shuffles back into the pile of papers. "Fast forward to the nineteen eighties." Retrieving another folder from the stack, he takes out some papers and spreads them out over the surface of the table.

Without prompting, Alicia stands and leans over, scanning the pages. She frowns. "What am I looking at here?"

"You're the one who did a law degree. You tell me."

"Only pre-law," she points out reproachfully. "And that was years ago." But she dutifully studies the papers, scanning through the columns of figures and paragraphs of legalese. "It looks like... parts of several different documents?" she says, hesitantly at first, and then more confidently. "These seem to be part of an international trade agreement of some kind. It doesn't say what's being traded, or between whom, but it's setting out some fairly heavy-duty restrictions. If I had to guess, I'd say this involved governments, rather than private companies."

She glances at Owen for confirmation. He nods slowly.

"Go on."

"These are bank statements, of course, although the account numbers have been blacked out. Whoever they are, though, they received several rather sizeable sums of money." Her eyebrows lift as she studies the numbers more closely. "*Very* sizeable sums. Owen, where did you get these?"

"Anything else?"

"More trade agreements, or parts of them. Identifying details are blacked out, but it looks like one side is getting very favourable terms."

"What about the dates?"

She shrugs. "They're all dated sometime in the early eighties. The first trade agreement was in nineteen eighty, and everything else was within the next three years or so. I assume this is relevant?"

"You assume correctly. In the early eighties, a number of meetings took place between highly placed individuals in the UK and US governments. Certain agreements were made. Shortly after than that, substantial amounts of money -- in the form of trade and import/export agreements, plus some raw capital -- flowed from the US to the UK."

"And?" she prompts, when he gives her an expectant look.

"And the US started making their own superhumans!"

Alicia blinks. "So, the UK government shared their breakthrough with the US in return for money and trade concessions?" She shakes her head. "I have to say, I'm not seeing the nefariousness here."

"The US did government did lie about our own scientists making the breakthrough themselves," he points out. "But you're right. That's just small potatoes. We'll get to the nefarious stuff soon. So, American scientists worked on their own version of the Prometheus project for the next five years or so. That's when they made their own breakthrough."

"I thought you said they *didn't* have a breakthrough."

Owen flings his hands in the air exasperatedly. "I said they didn't make the original breakthrough! Not that they didn't make *any*."

"You said they discovered jack shit."

"I was exaggerating for effect!"

"Then you should have made that clear."

"I just- Oh." Owen glowers. "You're messing with me, aren't you?"

"A little," she admits. "You make it so easy, though."

"Well, don't! This is serious."

"I know that. But you haven't really told me anything."

It's not that she's not finding this interesting, but it doesn't seem to be getting her any closer to finding anything concrete about these alleged medical tests. The full impact of Kalinda's revelation didn't really hit her before, but now she's really thinking about it, her stomach is twisting uneasily.

They could have been doing things to her friends. To *her*. Things that could change them irrevocably. Whatever these people are doing -- *if* they're doing anything at all, she forcibly reminds herself -- it's unlikely that their procedures have been properly tested. She and her friends would be guinea pigs. Lab rats. Test subjects. It could give them cancer, or any number of degenerative diseases.

Or it could make them go stark, staring mad.

And then it's like she's run into a brick wall. A sudden thought crashes into her mind hard enough to take her breath away. Her legs feel shaky, and she backs up blindly to sit down heavily on the bed.

'Oh god. Is that what happened to Jonas?'

"Alicia? 'Lish? What's wrong? Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?" She has the feeling that Owen has been speaking for some time while she's been lost in the depths of her panic. "Talk to me, Sis?"

She takes a deep breath and focuses, a little startled to see him leaning over her, his face creased with worry, and the beginnings of his own panic. 'I didn't even notice him move,' she thinks, irrelevantly, cursing herself for flaking out like this.

"I'm fine," she says. "It's okay. I'm okay. It's just..." He's still looking worried, so she reaches out and squeezes his hand. Carefully. "I think it's only just starting to sink in, you know? This isn't just some academic exercise. They could really be experimenting on us." She sighs softly. "I suppose I just haven't really let myself think about it until now."

"I understand," Owen says softly, looking a little relieved. He returns the squeeze, then plonks himself down next to her on the bed and hugs her. "But it'll be okay. We'll find out if there's any truth to this, and if there is, we'll stop it." In a much brighter tone, he adds: "The good news is, with your healing factor, chances are any damage that might have been done will fix itself in time, anyway."

He smiles at her, and she finds herself returning it. "Thanks, Owen." Much to her surprise, she actually does feel much better, if a little annoyed at herself for losing it like that. "Sorry for being such a flake."

Owen pulls back to look at her with an incredulous expression. "*You're* apologising to *me* for being a flake? Well, now I've heard everything. Can I get that in writing?"

She laughs. "No, not a chance."

"Worth a try," he sighs. He tightens his arm around her briefly, and then stands up again. "Are you... Do you want me to continue? Because we can take a break if you want; talk about something else? We could..."

"No, it's okay." When he still looks uncertain, she hastens to add: "Please continue. I need to know this. It might help us figure out what's really going on. You're the one who's always saying that context is everything."

He studies her for a moment and then, abruptly, a grin lights up his face. "So you have read my blog after all."

"I'm sure you've said that to me before. It doesn't necessarily mean... That is: I... Oh, okay." She shrugs, returning the grin. The panic is still there, lurking, but she can push it aside for the moment. Silently, she thanks Owen for knowing what she needs. (And ignores the tiny, bitter voice that observes it would have been nice if Peter had demonstrated that trait towards the tail end of their marriage. And afterwards.) "Fine. I read your blog. Happy?"

"A gentleman doesn't crow in victory," Owen pronounces haughtily, and then rather spoils the effect by sticking his tongue out at her. "*Anyway*, he says, before she can respond. "I think we'd just got to the US breakthrough?"

"The one you previously said didn't exist; yes," she can't help saying.

He contents himself with a glower. Grabbing the chair, he turns it so he can sit on it the wrong way around, facing her as he straddles the seat. He leans his arms on the back rest.

"Right. So. The second big breakthrough came around mid-eighties. Unlike the first one, though, we -- that is, those of us who are interested but not actually in the loop -- actually have some information to work with."

"Which is?"

"Around that time -- well, technically, it started a few years before -- a number of promising scientists seemed to drop off the face of the earth. They didn't teach, they didn't publish; nothing. But they were still working. Still attending conferences, still keeping up with current developments in their fields. That means only one thing."

"What?"

"It means they'd gone to the dark side."

Alicia raises an eyebrow. "The dark side?"

"They'd become a cog in the uncaring machine that is the military-industrial complex."

"So, they'd gone to work for the Defence Department."

"If you must phrase it so benignly, then yes. That's it. It's not quite as simple and clean as all that, though."

She frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Those scientists are still gainfully employed, right? They might not be able to talk about what they do, but they're still doing it. The pay may not be great, but it's undoubtedly more than they'd get working at a university. And they don't have to wade through the grant melee every year, or few years, or whatever. No tenure, but it's probably much harder to fire them. And the redundancy and pension packages are almost certainly better than academia." He points at her, the gesture almost accusing. "That's what you were thinking, right?"

"Something like that," she admits. "Why?"

"There may be some truth to that rosy picture in your head -- some; not all -- but those are just the ones who go along with it, willingly or otherwise. It's a different story for those who try to refuse. Journals start rejecting their papers. Grant applications are unsuccessful. Shipments of chemicals or equipment are delayed, or maybe never turn up at all. There are scandals -- accusations of drug-taking, or dalliances with prostitutes. Or, even worse, *plagiarism*. Or shoddy work." He shudders visibly. "In the more extreme cases, maybe the scientists even get a visit from some jackbooted thugs."

"Come *on*, Owen!" Alicia has been listening to the list with increasing disbelief, and the last one really is too much. "That only happens in the movies! It doesn't actually happen in real life." Then again... "Does it?"

"You'd be surprised," he says darkly. "But, let's leave that for the moment. So. Scientists were being approached..."

He looks at Alicia like he's expecting her to say something, so she asks what seems to be the obvious question. "What kinds of scientists are we talking about?"

"Aha! Now you're starting to ask the right questions. We're talking about physicists -- nuclear, high energy and radiation specialists -- chemical engineers, electrical engineers and materials scientists. And that tells us something. It tells us that, whatever this mysterious breakthrough was, it was something to do with-"

"Power," Alicia interrupts.

Owen frowns at her, looking like the wind has been taken out of his sails somewhat. "Well, yes. Exactly. Power." He pulls a flash drive out of his pocket and plugs it into his laptop, hitting a few keys to bring up a slightly blurred image. "Do you know what this is?"

Alicia leans forward, trying to make sense of the lines and symbols. "A schematic of some kind?"

He rolls his eyes. "Way to state the obvious. Any guesses as to *what* kind? Given what we've just been talking about?"

A memory surfaces: Will hunching over a desk, poring over pages and pages of circuit diagrams as he complains loudly about the unfairness of it all.

("Why did *I* get the power set that means I have to study if I want to use it effectively?" he rails in disgust. "I swear I have more homework now than I ever had at college." He glowers at the pile of books, papers and post-it notes spread out in front of him, looking as if he's a mere few seconds away from sweeping the lot of it onto the floor and stomping off in a huff. "If I'd wanted to become an electrical engineer, then I would've applied to do *that!")

"Something electrical," she muses, almost to herself. The penny drops. "A generator? *The* generators?"

"Give the girl a goldfish!"

But Alicia doesn't even notice the patronising tone -- deliberately calculated to wind her up, no doubt -- as she stares at her brother in shock. "Owen, how the hell did you get hold of the generator schematics? These are supposed to be classified! Extremely classified!" She blindly jabs a finger in the direction of the screen. "You could go to jail just for having this. I could go to jail for *knowing* you have this and not turning you in. They would de-attune me and lock me up. They'd throw away the key!"

Owen's eyebrows have been climbing higher and higher as she voices her panic. "Just calm down, okay. Let me-"

"I am calm!" she practically shouts. There's a beat as they both stare at each other, as she realises exactly how she sounds -- and despises herself for losing control of her emotions for the umpteenth time this day -- and makes herself simmer down a notch or three. "I am calm," she continues, more quietly. "I just want you to realise how serious this is."

Owen snorts. "Alicia, the generators are the worst-kept government secret since, I don't know, the Iran-Contra affair."

She frowns, trying -- and failing -- to make sense of that. "What?"

"Oh, Alicia." Owen sighs, shaking his head. "You are so naive sometimes. Do you have any idea how major an undertaking it is to put that kind of infrastructure in place? How many people are involved? Frankly, the really shocking thing isn't that people know about this hugely classified endeavour. It's that more people *don't* know. Do you know how hard it is to keep things truly secret in this day and age? The best they can really hope for is misdirection." He shrugs. "Although they seem to have done a not-entirely-horrible job with that."

"I see," she says, slowly, working through that. "I guess you're right..."

"I know I'm right! I bet the only reason Heroes, Inc. make such a big deal about keeping the generators secret is because they don't want their precious stars to be worrying about how vulnerable they are."

"Oh." She frowns, turning that thought over in her mind. "Oh?"

"I mean," he continues cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the way she's staring at him. "All it takes is for someone to knock out enough of the generators at a time when they know you need to draw on them. Either you can't use your funkier powers, in which case you can't stop them taking you out. Or you use your abilities anyway, and hope it doesn't kill you. Look what happened to your predecessors. Look at what happened to the Iron Lady!"

Her throat seems to close up, her thoughts filled with memories of Diane -- proud, brittle (in more ways than the obvious) Diane -- on one of her bad days.

 

* * * * * *

 

Alicia strides purposefully down the corridor towards Diane's suite, mortification and fury quickening her pace as she hopes fervently that the other woman hasn't yet seen today's edition of 'Eye on the Sky.' Her thoughts briefly fill with undoubtedly petty and yet unbelievably satisfying musings on what it would feel like to storm into Eli's office, pick him up by one ankle and dangle him off the edge of the tower for a while. Not that she would ever *really* do such a thing, of course. Certainly not. Honestly, despite all the combat training she's been having, she still feels faintly alarmed by the possibility of real violence.

But imagining shaking Eli up a bit feels awfully good right now.

There's a sudden crash from up ahead, closely followed by a pained cry.

Concern driving all other thoughts from her head, she runs the rest of the way to her destination, knocking loudly on Diane's door.

"Ms Lockhart? Diane? It's Alicia. Are you alright?" There's an unintelligible response from within; there could be words, or it could just be another sound of distress. She tries the door, but it's locked. It looks like this is going to call for drastic measures. "I'm going to break the door open, okay?" Not waiting for a reply, she braces herself and pushes on the door.

(Despite the seriousness of the situation, she can't help being inordinately pleased at the fact that she manages to only break the lock, rather than ripping the entire door off its hinges. All that time practicing her control has apparently paid off.)

Once inside, she calls out Diane's name, quickly checking the apartment for any sign of her mentor.

"In the kitchen," comes the reply, sounding more annoyed than anything else. (Alicia hopes that's not because of the door.)

She hurries in that direction, pausing briefly in the doorway until her gaze settles on the crumpled form amidst the smashed remains of various items of crockery. A few quick steps take her to Diane's side, where she carefully crouches down, avoiding shards.

"What can I do? Are you alright? What happened?"

"I'm-" Diane breaks off with a gasp, then takes a deep, slightly ragged breath. When she speaks again, it sounds like her words are coming through gritted teeth. "Can you please help me over to a chair?"

"Shouldn't you stay where you are? I can-" The glare Diane turns on her makes her swallow the rest of that sentence and simply do as requested. (As ordered.)

A few long and painful minutes later, Diane is seated stiffly on the sofa. It isn't the closest seat to where she fell, but it's the one she insisted on going to, proclaiming that it would be far better suited to her recovery than one of the kitchen chairs. Alicia didn't dare to gainsay her. Now, she stands uncertainly in front of the sofa, not sure what to do.

Diane looks up at her, somehow managing a smile. "Please do sit down," she says. "I'm going to get a crick in my neck looking up at you otherwise."

"Are you sure you don't want me to call a doctor?" Alicia tries again. She's almost certain that Diane has broken an arm, a collarbone, a couple of ribs, and maybe even an ankle. Frankly, she isn't sure how Diane even made it this far, let alone how she's remaining so calm and collected.

"There seems little point," Diane says, her tone both firm and reasonable. "By the time they get here, the damage will have healed." A hint of bitterness creeps into her voice as she continues. "And it isn't as if they can fix the real problem."

"Is there *anything* I can do?" Alicia feels so useless just standing here.

"Yes. You can sit down and talk with me a while." Diane actually smiles. "It will help to distract me as my bones knit back together."

Alicia sits down. "What happened?" she asks, softly.

Diane grimaces. For a moment, Alicia doesn't think she's going to answer, but then she speaks. "Such a silly thing," she says, sounding distinctly embarrassed. "I slipped over as I was loading the dishwasher. There must have been some water on the floor that I didn't see." Her direct, level gaze almost dares Alicia to contradict her. Alicia doesn't. "But enough about that. What can I do for you, Alicia?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I assume there's a reason you were outside my door..."

"Oh. Yes. Yes, there was." Part of her wonders if this is really the time to be having this conversation, but then Diane did ask. She makes a concerted effort to gather up her scattered thoughts. "Have you seen the latest edition of 'Eye on the Sky'?"

"No, actually. I don't really tend to watch them any more. Why?" She raises her eyebrows enquiringly. "Is there something I should be aware of?"

Alicia's brief flare of relief at Diane's answer is quickly followed by a cold panic. She hadn't really thought beyond the need to come and talk to Diane. Right now. How should she actually say this?

"Well, there seemed to be quite a strong focus on you. And me." She takes a deep breath. "And our rivalry."

Diane looks blankly at her for a moment or two, and then abruptly bursts into laughter. "Let me guess," she says, smiling wryly. "Various unrelated pieces of footage have been spliced together and/or taken completely out of context so that they tell the story of a proud and battle-scarred matron resenting the intrusion of a young upstart, while the bright new star chafes under the reign of an ageing, has-been harridan. Is that about the size of it?"

"Well, yes," Alicia says, a little nonplussed at Diane's humour. "It makes it look as if I said some really awful things about you, but I swear I didn't. I wouldn't! I just wanted you to know that." She can feel the panic building again, and she searches vainly for the words that will prove to Diane that it really wasn't what it looked like.

"It's alright, Alicia," Diane says gently. "That's what they do. They're trying to tell a story, and the story the public wants to believe says that a woman's worst enemy is another woman. It says that an older woman and a younger woman working together can only be rivals; never friends. And conflict makes for much more compelling viewing than the truth, so they pick the clips that reinforce their narrative and discard the rest." She shrugs. "There's a reason I don't tend to watch that show any more. Or any of the others. I would- Oh!" She winces faintly, her breath quickening. She shifts a little in her seat, pressing her lips together as if to keep in more pained sounds.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Alicia leaps up, but then hesitates, not sure what she should do.

"It, ah, it's nothing to be concerned about. Really. It's just..." Diane's breath hisses through her teeth. "It happens sometimes during or after healing. Muscles spasming a little, that's all. It'll pass." She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again, meeting Alicia's gaze. "Don't fret."

"But you're in pain," Alicia breathes. Louder, she says: "There must be *something* I can do. Something the doctors can do, at least."

"There isn't. And I do not care to have them poke and prod at me just to confirm what they already know. I'd like to hang on to at least *some* shreds of dignity, thank you very much. God knows I've been left with precious little of it as things are." She folds her hands in her lap, and Alicia suddenly realises that they're trembling; that Diane's whole body is shaking. She can actually see the muscles jumping and twitching under Diane's skin as she struggles to sit still.

"Do you want me to go?" Alicia asks, not wanting to leave, but not wanting her presence to make Diane's distress and discomfort any worse.

"No. Stay. If- If you want to. Keep a- an old woman company for a while." Somehow, she manages to dredge up a smile from somewhere. Alicia is quietly in awe of her apparent strength of will. "I can give you some tips about coping with the cameras that you'll never hear from Eli."

Alicia sits back down, somehow managing a smile of her own. "Now, that sounds intriguing..."

And it is, it really is. But even as Diane imparts her wisdom, the main thoughts running through her mind are: 'That poor woman' and: 'Please, god-I-don't-believe-in, let nothing like that ever happen to me.'


	8. Power Plays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Twilight of the Gods](http://archiveofourown.org/works/747116) is a story that is a gen prelude to 'Where Angels Fear to Tread', telling the tale of the incident where superheroes first turned from publicity gimmick to actual heroes in the public perception. If you want a little more background information on the universe, you might want to read it now. It was originally intended to be one of the scenes in this chapter. At over 13K words, it grew a little too much for that.

Alicia remembers the way Diane and Jonas used to lock themselves away once a year with a pile of bottles to hold their own private day of remembrance for their fallen comrades. (Diane doesn't do that anymore. Not since Jonas... passed away. When Alicia -- hesitantly, and half expecting a polite but firm refusal to answer -- asked her what had changed, she smiled sadly and said: "I decided that focusing on preventing future tragedies was better than dwelling on past ones.")

"Owen," she says faintly, when she can finally make her voice work. "Please do me a favour and *shut up* about my likely unfortunate demise."

"Huh? Oh. Sorry," he says, sounding more confused than contrite. "I'd think you would *want* to know, but okay. If you're squeamish. It's alright, though," he hastens to add, sounding almost reassuring. "Most people don't have my ability to put things together. Just because people know about the generators, doesn't mean they know about the connection to the heroes. It's probably fine. Those things must have a butt-load of security, right?"

"Hmm," she says, noncommittally. She resists the urge to point out that if it happened once, it could happen again. Anyway, they've all been trained in how to recognise dead spots, and Will's abilities make him especially good at it. They would know if they were in danger.

They would *know*.

So there's really no point in her worrying about it.

(Even if that might be easier said than done.)

"So, now that we're on the subject," Owen says brightly, that note in his voice that means he's going to ask something Alicia isn't going to want to agree to.

"Yes, Owen?"

"I, uh, have some questions about these generators. Like, a lot of questions, actually. I guess you won't be able to answer the more rarefied physics stuff, but I bet there's a lot you could tell me." His expression resembles nothing so much as a puppy begging for a treat.

"Like what?" she asks cautiously.

"Like how you access the power, for starters. I mean, I know the generators are hooked up to massive transmitter arrays. And I know they're using dead zone frequencies as carrier waves. Wireless energy transmission -- how Tesla-esque! It's probably based on some of his work, or at least inspired by it. Wonder if they also used some of his death ray stuff..." He shakes his head. "But I'm getting side-tracked. Anyway, how the hell does a person actually tap into that power grid? Do they -- do you -- have some kind of sub dermally implanted receiver? And how-"

"Dead zone frequencies?" That was the thing that really sticks out from the rest of his stream-of-consciousness babbling. Well, that and 'death ray,' but she senses that asking about the latter will lead to a whole different monologue.

Anyway, she doesn't think she has the patience to sit through another bout of his Tesla fanboyism right now.

"Um, yeah," he says, distractedly. "There's a band at the short-wave end of the RF spectrum that's been blocked off by the military for unspecified purposes. No one's allowed to broadcast anything on those wavelengths under pain of all sorts of terrible things. Naturally, this just makes certain people curious. Curious enough to scan those wavelengths to see what exactly they're being used for."

He clears his throat and tries to look innocent. It doesn't work. Alicia shakes her head.

"No wonder people were watching you. They probably think you're some kind of terrorist!"

"It's not just me," he says, defensively. "There's a not insignificant subgroup of the ham radio community who have a specific interest in those frequencies. There are forums and everything! Sometimes there are scanning parties. Offline ones, even! People congregate with their sets and see what they can pick up."

"I... see." Nope, she's not going to ask about his involvement in the ham radio community. Not on this occasion. Maybe another time. "So, what *did* you pick up?"

"Mostly static. Sometimes weird interference patterns. Nothing coherent enough to be an actual broadcast. And if you try to send something yourself, then-"

"You said that was forbidden!"

Owen just shrugs unapologetically. "If you try transmitting on those frequencies, the results are really hit and miss. Sometimes it gets through, sometimes it's garbled. Sometimes the signal drops out completely." 

"So, how did you get from this to generators?" she asks, genuinely curious. It certainly doesn't seem like an obvious leap of logic.

"It wasn't easy!" he says, sitting up straight, his whole manner becoming more animated. "I started with the 'missing' scientists." He actually makes air quotes with his fingers. Alicia resists the urge to roll her eyes.

"How did you even know they were connected?"

"I didn't; not at first. I was just curious about why the jackbooted thugs of the military were stamping on the face of science. *This* time."

"Owen." Alicia says, reproachfully.

He waves a dismissive hand in her direction. "Fine, fine," says, impatiently. "Objection sustained, Little Miss Lawful Good. I meant to say: I was curious about what the military needed all these scientists for. While I was poking around, I came across a reference to a facility that we were pretty sure was being used for Prometheus Project research. I connected the dots from there." He pauses there, and she's just about to ask another question when he hurriedly adds: "I mean, don't get me wrong, it took a lot of work, and some of the connections were really quite obscure. There was a reason no one had put it all together before." He glowers at her. "So don't go thinking it was a cakewalk!"

"I wasn't," she murmurs, but he's already moving on.

"Anyway, the details of how I figured everything out really aren't all that interesting. I'd rather hear about the generators. So, give!"

He looks at Alicia expectantly, but she hesitates, wavering indecisively. The Heroes, Inc. legal department -- not to mention the intense and slightly intimidating government liaison who oversaw all the non-disclosure agreements and security clearance stuff -- were *extremely* emphatic about the severe legal consequences of revealing anything about the generators. Technically, answering Owen's questions would put her in serious breach of contract. At the very least. If a leak gets traced back to her, she'll be in a lot of trouble.

On the other hand, she trusts Owen. She's going to need his help to figure out if the company is really up to something... nefarious. It'll be easier for him to help her if he has all the facts.

Right?

Taking a deep breath, she forces the words out before she loses her nerve.

"Fine."

 

* * * * *

 

The screen shows an official-looking seal on a dark blue background. The words 'US Government Department of Defence" are printed in solidly imposing block capitals. In smaller (but no less intimidating) letters are the words: "Accessing these materials without the proper authorisation is a federal crime."

After half a minute or so, the warning disappears, revealing, not a laboratory this time, but a perfectly ordinary conference room. The date: '07/13/1984' is printed in small white digits at the bottom right hand corner of the screen.

The walls of the conference room are painted pale green, and the floor is covered with a dark grey carpet of the hard-wearing variety popular in public buildings like schools and prisons. The room isn't small, but the table in the centre almost fills it. When fully occupied -- as it is now, by a collection of serious-looking people (mostly men), attired either in military uniforms (all men) or business suits -- there is barely any room to squeeze around the outside.

Someone is making the attempt now: a tall, gangly man who seems to be saying "Excuse me" or "Sorry" with every step. His suit is a little rumpled, his tie askew. His hair stands up every which way. As he carefully squeezes and contorts to get through the narrow space between the wall and the chairs, he draws a number of glances; some disapproving, some strangely respectful. Most of the former are from the obvious military men, most of the latter from be-suited individuals.

At one point, his elbow clips someone's water glass. In his flailing -- yet, somehow, successful -- attempt to stop it spilling, he manages to send a pile of paper and at least two pens flying every which way. That provokes a veritable torrent of "Sorry" and "My fault" and "Let me", which the uniformed victim of his clumsiness waves away with a curt: "It's fine." The rumpled man apologises once more for good measure, takes a deep breath and, moving with exaggerated care, continues on his way. 

Eventually, and without further incident, he manages to struggle through to the far end of the room where an overhead projector has been set up. A neat stack of acetates has been arranged on a small table next to it.

Flipping the switch to turn the projector on, he turns to face the gathered people, smiling a little nervously.

"Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Dr Arthur Tynes and, as requested, I'm here to brief you on the current status of the Prometheus Project."

"*You're* Dr Tynes?" one of the military men asks in disbelief. The name-plate in front of him on the table identifies him as General R. Cable. "You're just a kid!"

"I'm thirty-four!" Dr Tynes retorts defensively, drawing himself up to his full (and considerable) height.

General Cable snorts. "As I said."

"I assure you that Dr Tynes is more than capable," interrupts one of the suited men, heading off whatever the red-faced Dr Tynes was opening his mouth to say. "His insights have brought forward the completion date of this project by, oh, a decade or so at the very least."

"If you say so, Professor McLachlan." The general doesn't entirely sound convinced, but he doesn't make any further objections.

"Please continue, Artie," instructs Professor McLachlan.

"Thanks, Prof," replies Dr Tynes; Artie. "Right. So." He picks up the first acetate and lays it carefully down on the projector. Then he quickly flips it over so it's no longer upside down and the words: 'The Prometheus Project' can clearly be seen. "The aim of the Prometheus Project is to create so-called enhanced personnel for deployment in a law-enforcement and military capacity. It-"

"Son," interrupts General Cable. "Everyone in this room knows what the Prometheus Project is, and what it's for. Frankly, anyone who doesn't has no business *being* in this room. You can skip the background."

"Oh." Artie sounds completely nonplussed. "But I'd prepared... Umm, okay. I can... Just let me..." He starts flipping through his acetates, dropping a handful of them onto the floor.

"Let me make it simple for you, son," says General Cable. "Just brief us on the current status of Prometheus Blue. We don't need every single tiny little detail; we just want to know if this thing is actually viable."

There are some disapproving looks levelled at the general from around the table, but he seems not to either notice or care. No one actually objects aloud, however, so Artie takes a deep breath and stands up straight.

"Sure, I can do that," he says. He takes another deep breath, looking up at the ceiling for a moment before meeting the general's piercing gaze. "Prometheus Blue is the latest version of the Prometheus protocol. The process has undergone a number of refinements since its original version, either in response to specific issues, or to achieve more general improvements. Many of these refinements have simply involved incorporating the relevant technological advances, such as: radioactive tagging, stereotactic injection techniques, NMR and PET. Uh, I mean nuclear magnetic resonance and positronic emission tomography. To name but a few. Prometheus Blue, however, is so much more than a mere technological update. It is a quantum leap beyond everything that has gone before."

He looks around the room expectantly, his face falling at the combination of boredom and impatience directed his way. Professor McLachlan seems actively interested, however, nodding encouragingly at Artie.

"Every previous iteration of the protocol has suffered from what we call the 'Threshold Problem'. Prometheus-enhanced personnel -- I call them 'PEPs' -- are generally able to manifest lower-level expressions of their particular p-abilities with few or even no ill-effects. Higher-level ones, though, prove somewhat, ah, problematic. Simply put, it seems to be a matter of power. That is to say: they just don't have enough of it. Their bodies quite literally tear themselves apart trying to achieve and/or maintain the desired level of expression. It..." He pulls a face. "It isn't pretty."

"But that hasn't happened for a while, right?" asks a worried-looking man in a suit; Agent L. Frasier. "You managed to figure out what the thresholds were?"

"Well, not me personally, but yes. Thankfully. I've seen the footage of the original Prometheus Orange tests." Artie shudders. "It is *not* pleasant viewing. Anyway." He composes himself. "The precise expression threshold differs from subject to subject, but we -- or, more properly, my predecessors -- managed to establish that it mostly falls within a particular range. As long as the PEPs are careful not to push their limits too much, they're mostly fine."

"Could you limit expression externally?" a Colonel F. Mason wants to know. He shrugs. "People can make mistakes, especially under fire. From what I've read, it seems likely that if you put these enhanced personnel in the field, some of them might push too hard, end up as piles of goo. Can you just... make sure that isn't possible?"

"Sure, technically," Artie shrugs. "But you'd pretty much have to lobotomise 'em, which has whole other problems. And every single subject we've studied shows increased toughness and improved healing capacity, so even if you could do it in such a way as to leave them functional, you'd have no guarantee it would stick."

"You could have just said 'no'," retorts Colonel Mason, a touch frostily.

Artie frowns. "But you asked if it was possible. Which it is."

"But it isn't *practical*."

"Well, sure. But it *is* possible."

"Let's not get side-tracked," interjects Professor McLachlan. "Artie, you were telling us about the threshold problem?"

"Yes. So. Anyway. We -- that is to say, everyone who's worked on the project since those early days in the war, when they didn't really understand what they were seeing -- have known about the threshold problem for some time. Since we know it's due, essentially, to PEPs needing more juice than they have available, there was one obvious solution: give them more power."

"That sounds... remarkably straightforward," observes General Cable, warily. "Deceptively so, I suspect."

"Correct, General." Artie nods. "Over the years, various scientists have tried food supplements (not even nearly good enough), batteries (carried and, more recently, implanted; still not good enough), generators (some success here, actually, but mobility's kind of an issue) and pretty much anything else they could think of. With only limited success."

He pauses for a long moment, and then smiles brilliantly. "Until now."

"Please, enlighten us," orders the general, a touch of impatience edging his voice.

"Okay. So. I don't know if you know this, but my background is in high energy physics. I was actually working on something else entirely when Prof McLachlan recruited me for the Prometheus Project." He shakes his head ruefully. "It was a bit of a steep learning curve," he admits.

"I trust this will prove relevant at some point..." sighs General Cable.

"Well, yes. Extremely relevant. You see, I was working on a project to do with improving the robustness and efficiency of the national power grid. The overall plan was to utilise a linked series of micro-reactors, effectively creating a decentralised system with the flexibility to rapidly modulate output based on local demand. At the local level, we wanted to use wireless power transmission, because..." A sheepish grin flickers across his face. "Well, because a whole bunch of reasons you don't really need to know and probably aren't interested in hearing. Suffice it to say, that's what we were doing. This is where I came in. *My* role was to design an efficient -- well, less lossy -- method of wireless power transfer that would be compatible with the micro-reactors."

Artie's whole demeanour changes when he starts talking about his project. He loses his nervous discomfort, becoming loose-limbed and animated, accompanying his words with excited and expansive gestures. (Once or twice, the projector almost becomes a casualty of his enthusiasm.)

"My basic approach was, rather than using a single, massively powerful transmitter, to try a whole bunch of less powerful units. As well as introducing a greater level of redundancy, I figured it was possible that the right arrangement would allow transmissions to interfere constructively, strengthening the grid as a whole. We were using modulated RF transmissions, you see, and-"

"Jesus wept!" Colonel Mason exclaims, not even trying to keep his voice low. "Speak English, kid."

"Um, I thought I was..." Artie looks helplessly at Professor McLachlan.

"Just give the lay summary, Artie."

"But- Okay." He takes a deep breath. "Basically, I was working on wireless energy transmission using specific frequencies of radio waves." He glances around the room, but doesn't seem to have lost anyone so far. Not even Colonel Mason. "It was working pretty well. But I noticed something interesting. When I used what seemed to be the optimal wavelength, I started seeing odd patterns of interference. At the time, of course, I saw this as a problem. As a puzzle. What it actually turned out to be the key to solving the Threshold Problem." He pauses for breath. "Do you want to take over, Professor?"

"No, you keep going."

"Scientists working on the Prometheus Project had already established that PEPs are sensitive to certain frequencies of radiation. This sensitivity is something that they all seem to have in common, regardless of the nature of their other abilities." One of the only two women in the room, identified by her name plate as Ms C Worthington, raises her hand. "Yes?"

"So, this is like the general improvements to physical qualities like healing, toughness, agility and senses, etc.?"

Artie beams. "Precisely. Anyway, Professor McLachlan put these two facts together." His smile turns wry. "The next thing I knew, some very firm gentlemen in uniform were 'asking' me to sign a daunting set of forms and confidentiality agreements, before whisking me off to a military base in the middle of nowhere. The Prof brought me up to speed, and I've been working for the Prometheus Project ever since." He shrugs diffidently. "We succeeded. Prometheus Blue is the result."

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows that statement. Colonel Mason frowns.

"You're saying... you've solved the threshold problem?"

"Well... yes. We've had the test facility up and running for some time now. It took some trial and error, but we've figured out how to train our volunteers to tap the field. Although, honestly, they did a lot of the work themselves. Some of it almost seems to operate on an instinctive level, which the psych guys seem pretty worked up about. Apparently-"

"Volunteers?" interrupts a Dr G Fernandez, one of the suited men, frowning a little. "How did you recruit them? I trust there aren't any confidentiality issues we need to worry about."

"Um, I didn't do any actual recruiting. These people came from the pool of Prometheus candidates that the military provided. You'd have to ask them about it."

Still frowning, Dr Fernandez turns to General Cable. He opens his mouth to speak, but the general holds up a hand, cutting him off before he utters a word.

"There are no confidentiality issues, Doctor. We have procedures for this kind of thing."

"But-"

"We can discuss this further afterwards if you still have concerns." The general returns his attention to Artie, clearly dismissing Dr Fernandez for the moment. "Go on, Dr Tynes."

"Umm." Artie blinks a few times, clears his throat and takes a deep breath. "Right. So. We've had a few bugs to iron out here and there, and there were some things that needed tweaking a little, but in general we're getting good, consistent results. Obviously there are mobility issues with this set up, but that's something we can work on for future iterations. In the meantime, we have a stable and reliable way for the PEPs to draw the power they need so they can operate safely under field conditions." He smiles proudly. "Gentlemen, I give you Prometheus Blue."

He only looks a little deflated when he's met with utter silence. Professor McLachlan beams proudly at him though, which seems to perk him up a little.

General Cable frowns. "So, how long will it be before Prometheus Blue is field ready?"

Artie furrows his brow. "I'm sorry, General, I thought you already knew. The technology is field ready now. We're just waiting for the go-ahead from Oversight, which I guess means you guys. We were putting together a big snazzy presentation for you and everything but, well, you called me in before we were finished." He spreads his hands. "I guess we can still do the big presentation if you want, but we're really pretty much good to go. I mean, there are infrastructure issues and whatnot, but that's not really down to my team. We just make the science work. And it is working. We've run every single test we could think of, and..."

He grinds to a halt, looking worriedly around the table.

"Somebody say something. Please? Did I screw up? I'm not exactly great at presentations. I could maybe answer questions, if you have any...?"

"You did just fine," reassures Professor McLachlan. He stands up, joining Artie by the projector. "So, gentlemen: Prometheus Blue. Any thoughts?"

 

* * * * *

 

Owen claps his hands in undisguised glee. "Great! Don't worry, I'll be discreet," he says, clearly aiming for -- if not quite hitting -- a reassuring tone. "You won't get in trouble over this. Cross my heart and hope to die." He mimes crossing his heart and then lets his head flop to the side, tongue lolling out. Alicia can't help but laugh.

"Stick a needle in your eye?" she asks, smiling.

"Ew!" He shudders theatrically. "But yes." His expression becomes serious and he looks her directly in the eyes. "I would never do anything to endanger you, 'Lish."

"I know," she says, meaning the words from the bottom of her heart. (And ignoring that traitorous voice that whispers about past evidence of his intentions not always following through into his actions.) He always comes through on the serious stuff. (Mostly.) *Always*.

"So..." he says, encouragingly, leaning forward a little in anticipation.

"Alright. So. What was your question? Oh, right. No, none of us have any implanted receivers. Or implants of any kind, as far as I know."

"So, how-" he starts, but stops when she holds up a hand.

"We can all..." She hesitates for a moment over the correct way to phrase this, eventually settling on: "We can sense the broadcast from the generators. The power signal. Whatever you want to call it. Every single hero has this ability, and one of the very first things we're taught after undergoing the Process is how to recognise the signal. Once we can do that, we're trained in how to draw energy from it, and use that to power our abilities."

Owen is silent for a few moments after she stops speaking, looking at her as if he's expecting her to say something more. She shrugs helplessly, indicating that this is all she has.

"So, do you pick up the signal? See it? How do you receive the sensory input?"

"It's... part hearing, part touch." She half-closes her eyes, concentrating on how. "As if there's a sound that's not quite loud enough to hear properly, but I know it's there. Like a nearby iPod left on, or a radio turned way down low. At the same time, it's sort of a prickle on my skin, but it also seems to go right through me. Like I can feel it in my gut." She shakes her head. "I know I'm not describing it very well, but I don't really know the right words."

"That's okay," Owen says. "It can't be easy when the proper vocabulary probably doesn't exist." Abruptly, he pushes off the back of the chair, almost leaping to his feet. Twisting around, he reaches over to grab his laptop, and then hesitates. "Um, can I take notes?" She hesitates before replying, and he rushes onwards, words tumbling over each other in his eagerness to reassure her. "It's safe, I swear. I'll keep it anonymous, and I can encrypt it seven ways from Sunday. They'd have to be as good as, well, me to crack it, and how likely is that? This baby" -- he pats the device fondly -- "is in strict quarantine mode; completely standalone. And it'll stay that way until the files are lockup up tight. Better yet, shunted elsewhere. Removable media is where it's at."

"Alright."

"And then there's the physical security," he continues, oblivious to her interjection. "Forget safes and lockboxes. Well, don't forget them. They have their place, sure. But, as a great man once said, the best place to hide a needle is with a bunch of other needles. So, I just-"

"I said, alright!" she says, louder this time.

He looks at her blankly. "Huh?"

"You can take notes, Owen."

In for a penny, in for a pound, as her mother says. (Which is odd, because her mother is American born and bred, and that's a distinctly English saying. She probably picked it up from Downton Abbey, or Pride and Prejudice, or one of the other period dramas she seems to think are the reason for the existence of BBC America.)

"Great! Thanks, Alicia. You won't regret this." There's a brief comedic interlude as he tries to turn the chair around while juggling the laptop, during which disaster is averted by Alicia's quick reflexes. Eventually, though, the laptop is back on the table and Owen is seated before it, fingers flying over the keys as he writes down what Alicia's told him already. Looking at the screen, she can't help feeling that it doesn't amount to much. "Alright," he says, when he's finished quizzing her on how she senses the signal. "How do you actually *use* the power? How do you tap the grid, and how do you convert it into a usable form?"

Alicia shrugs. "I don't know. They never really told us. Well, they never told me. I know Will's training went into more detail, because of the nature of his abilities. Maybe he knows. I could try to ask him..."

"Better if you could put him in touch with me," Owen murmurs, his gaze faraway. "No offense, big sister, but you're not exactly a scientist. Maybe give him one of my disposable e-mail addresses?"

"Maybe. I don't want to get him in trouble, though." She holds up a finger to forestall Owen's imminent protest. "It's one thing for me to take a risk. It's another to get someone else to do it. I'll ask, but I won't push. And I tell you now, I'll probably warn him against doing it."

"But-"

"That's all you're getting. Don't pester for more, or you won't even get that."

"But..." he tries again, but she fixes him with a stern look and he subsides with a scowl and very bad grace. "Fine," he says, grudgingly. His expression smooths to thoughtfulness again, his sulk already forgotten. "Okay. So, if you can't tell me how it works, can you tell me what it feels like?"

Alicia nods. "Tapping the grid feels like... It feels like breathing. As a matter of fact, that's how we were taught to think about it, back when we were first learning..."

 

* * * * *

 

"Son of a *bitch*!"

Eli slams the phone down on the desk, glowering at it as if it has personally offended him. Close. He wonders half-seriously if he's going to have to purify the thing with fire just so he can use the thing again without feeling sullied by the lingering taint of that... that... *woman's* poisonous words.

"Smug goddamned overly-perky, fake-sympathising, condescending, shamelessly gloating, totally toxic *harpy*! You... You..." He splutters incoherently for a few moments, choking on the sheer number of epithets that want to spew forth from his lips, in the end managing to growl the worst, most obscenely filthy thing he can think of. "*Stacie*... *Hall*..."

"Should I come back later?"

He starts a little at the words, spoken in a mostly neutral tone with just the faintest hint of amusement. He looks up to see Kalinda lounging insouciantly in the doorway, one high-heeled boot crossed behind the other. Somehow, he isn't surprised that he hadn't heard the door open. The woman moves like a goddamned ghost when she wants to.

And, he has to admit, when he has a good rant going on, he doesn't always pay the closest possible attention to his surroundings.

"Oh, for god's sake," he mutters. "Come in, come in. Don't just stand there like a spare. Whatever it is, whatever new shit the universe has seen fit to rain down upon my undeserving head, I can fucking well take it!"

Despite his grumbles, he's actually happy there's a real live person here for him to yell at. Even if it is Kalinda, who -- as far as he can tell in the few times he's interacted with her -- is never fazed by any damn thing whatsoever. Like now, for instance. Other people would be tiptoeing around him, ducking their heads and jumping at every little thing he says, with a look on their face like they thought he was going to leap over his desk and start wringing their necks.

(Once. He did that *one* fucking *time* and no one has ever let him forget it. Not that he minds all that much, not really. Sometimes it's good to keep the minions on their toes.)

But Kalinda? She just closes the door and sashays right on up to stand across from him, looking him right in the eyes, cool as you please.

He kind of likes that about her. When it isn't pissing him right the fuck off.

"Did Ms Hall give you anything useful?" she asks, taking out that ever-present orange notebook of hers and looking at him expectantly.

He can feel his lip curl in a snarl. "Apparently Alicia left the Villains' Lair at 21:43 hours, and they have no idea where she went from there. Peter is in his apartment, fully accounted for, so wherever she is, she's not hanging out with him. The illustrious Ms *Hall*" -- he still can't help growling the word like it means something truly, indecently vile -- "assures me in all fucking *sincerity* that she had no advance knowledge of Peter's little stunt, but isn't true love just *wonderful*. Ha!"

"So, nothing helpful." Kalinda scribbles something down.

"That woman never did anything helpful in her whole damned *life* unless it was to benefit herself," Eli mutters. "And why would she help? She's like the cat that got the cream right now. She's had her eye on my job from the beginning. If she doesn't try to use this thing against me, I'll eat my own shoes. Hell, I'll eat *her* shoes. Goddamnit!"

"She's not going to get your job." The quiet conviction in Kalinda's voice makes him look at her -- really look at her -- for the first time since she interrupted his private tantrum.

"What do you mean?" He narrows his eyes. "Do you know something?"

She gives a small, secretive smile. (The fact that it's incredibly sexy just pisses him off further.) "I know lots of things, Eli. Things I'm sure Ms Hall wouldn't be happy about me -- or anyone -- knowing. She's not as squeaky clean as she thinks she is."

He blinks, sinking down into his chair, for once unsure what to say. "We should talk, you and I," he manages, eventually.

"Yes, we should," she agrees. "But we have a more pressing issue right now."

He groans loudly, dropping his head into his hands and slumping heavily. All of a sudden, he's aware that it's silly o' clock in the morning and he's so fucking *tired* he could just fall asleep at his desk right now if he didn't have to be *on* to deal with this fucking *disaster*.

"Our AWOL superheroine," he sighs. "So hit me. What's the latest bad news?"

"Some good news, actually. As far as I can tell, there's no sign that Lady Liberty was taken against her will. Nor is there any evidence that this was something she planned ahead of time."

Eli lifts his head, frowning. "This is *good* news?" he asks, disbelievingly.

"It is."

"Why?"

"Because at this point, the most likely scenario is that everything just got too much for her and she took off to clear her head." Kalinda quirks her eyebrow in a way he can't quite interpret but which looks to him a little like... disapproval? "It must have been a very stressful evening for her." She continues before he can interrupt. (Not, he supposes, that he was sure exactly what he wanted to say anyway.) "If she disappeared of her own free will, on the spur of the moment, then chances are she'll come back of her own free will too. And soon." She smiles slightly. "After all, it's not like she's carrying any money."

"I... guess," he says slowly, grudgingly, wanting to accept this ray of hope but unable -- unwilling -- to give into temptation just yet. "Seems like a bit of a leap, though. 'Likely' doesn't mean 'this is definitely what happened.' We're not just going to sit tight and hope she shows up again. We have to keep looking."

"Of course." Kalinda nods agreement. "I'm actually just about to head out to follow up some leads."

Eli starts to ask what those are, but then his phone beeps to tell him he has new mail. He checks it automatically, figuring that whatever it is he can probably ignore it for the time being, but then the sender catches his eye and he freezes for a long moment, not blinking, not even *breathing*, before he shakes himself into motion again and starts fumbling at his phone.

"What is it?" Kalinda asks sharply. He doesn't answer right away, reading the short message once, twice, three times over, trying to wring every last drop of meaning from the words. "Eli? Is something wrong?"

"It's..." His throat is too dry to squeeze the word out. He coughs and tries again. "It's from Alicia." He clears his throat, feeling something relax in his chest, a tightness he hadn't even realised was there. "She's okay."

For one moment, the only thing he feels is relief. (Not that he was *worried*, of course. Not really. The woman's a goddamned superhuman! What could possibly hurt her?) And then his temper flares. In the space between one breath and the next, he is absolutely *incandescent* with rage.

And it feels fucking *glorious*.

"Of course she's okay!" he bellows at the top of his lungs, slamming his hand down on the desk so hard that it hurts. "*We're* the ones running around with our heads up our asses trying to track her down. We're the ones working into the night when we could be tucked up in our beds sleeping the sleep of the just! Superheroes! Ha! I ought to-"

"What does she say?"

He frowns at the interruption, *right* when he was just starting to build up a good head of steam.

"Here," he says with bad grace, handing over his phone. "See for yourself. Looks like you were right. She says she'll be back sometime tomorrow morning."

Eli feels that little vein start jumping at his temple, the heat in his cheeks meaning that his face must be red as a tomato. He feels a tight smile stretch his lips, and he scans the desk for something he can throw.

"And when she does," he says, rolling the words around in his mouth with relish. "I am going to have a few *choice* things to say to her."

He's looking forward to it, in fact.

This is going to be *fun*.


	9. Chapter 9

Trying not to feel overwhelmed, Alicia wanders the seemingly endless corridors, checking door after door for a number that matches the one on the slip of paper she's clutching tightly in her hand. The past few weeks seem to have been a whirlwind of tests, examinations, seminars, tests, counselling sessions, physical training, tests, mental training, lectures and more tests. It's been extremely disorienting.

Not to mention lonely.

The only time she's seen any of the other trainees has been at the seminars and lectures, and then they were all too busy frantically trying to take in the masses and masses of information being thrown at them (all vitally important, all *necessary*) to really talk to each other. And any unscheduled interactions between them were strictly forbidden. Idly -- and more than a little irritably -- she wonders for the umpteenth time why that is.

'It's like being a teenager all over again,' she thinks crossly. Still, presumably the powers that be have their reasons. And, honestly, Alicia isn't sure how well she would handle crowds of people watching her trip over herself and rip doors off their hinges as she struggles to get used to her new strength and reflexes. It would just be nice if the people in charge would treat the trainees like adults and, let's see, *talk* to them. Rather than just handing out orders.

And, while she's on the subject of peeves, who the hell designed this building layout? M. C. Escher? Haven't these people even heard of 'logical layout' or 'intuitive navigation'?

'These numbers make no. Goddamned. Sense!'

'Oh, wait a minute. Is that it?'

She double-checks her slip of paper -- not that she really needs to, seeing as the room number is all-but burned into her brain -- and she's right. This is the place she's looking for.

Finally!

After taking a moment to compose herself, she raps sharply on the door.

"Come in." A woman's voice. Perhaps there's something a little familiar about it, but it's hard to be sure. Still, she'll know soon enough. Alicia takes a deep breath and opens the door.

And stands there, utterly nonplussed.

Of all the things she might have expected to find on the other side of that heavy, plain, olive-green door, the sight before her would not have been top of the list. Dim, diffuse lighting leaves the large room shadowed and dim, making it hard to judge its true size. The far wall is mirrored, the floor covered in soft, springy matting. The combination makes her think of a dance studio. (A brief flicker of memory: herself, aged eleven; ballet slippers and a pink tutu.) But there are large, plump cushions scattered on the floor, seemingly at random. Incense burns in holders set on tables placed around the edges of the room, filling the air with a smoky haze that smells faintly of lavender.

She fights back a sneeze.

"Well, don't just stand there," says a woman standing at the far end of the room, a touch impatiently. "Take a pew. Cushion. Whatever." She waves her hand at the seats in question, some of which, Alicia now notices, are already occupied by people she knows. Well, people she's met, at least. There are -- she counts quickly -- eight of them altogether. One -- Peter Florrick -- is beckoning to her, indicating the cushion next to him. "Oh, and take your shoes off," the woman adds, almost as an afterthought. "Leave them in the rack by the door."

Carefully shutting the door behind her, Alicia does as instructed, something the past few weeks have given her plenty of practice at. She takes the cushion next to Peter. (It would be rude not to. And besides, it's nice to see a friendly face.)

"Let me see," says the woman who's apparently in charge, consulting a clipboard. "You must be... Alicia Cavanaugh?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Hmm. Bet I know why *you* made the grade," she murmurs, smirking. Alicia frowns, sure she must have misheard, but the woman doesn't give her the chance to ask about it. "You can call me Viola. We're still waiting for one more, so continue to amuse yourselves for the time being and hopefully he'll show up soon."

It clicks, then, why her voice sounds so familiar. Why Alicia has the sneaking feeling that she knows this woman. She's never actually met her before, of course, but she's seen her on TV.

Siren. DC team. Sound-based powers, the most well-known of which is the ability to command people with her voice. Her colours are green and gold. Not that she's in costume now, of course. Instead, she's wearing a hot-pink diamante-spangled T-shirt over leopard-print leggings.

'That's... Wow.' Alicia tries not to stare. 'What an... interesting wardrobe choice,' she thinks bemusedly. It's certainly different to anything she's seen so far.

"Hi," Peter murmurs to her as she sinks onto the cushion. He smiles at her like he's genuinely pleased she's there, and that she's sitting next to him.

"Hi," she murmurs back, unable to help herself returning his smile. "Did I miss anything exciting?"

"Not that I know of. I haven't been here that long myself." He leans in a little, his smile turning sheepish. "I got a little lost trying to find this place."

She laughs softly. "Me too," she confides, feeling some of the lingering irritation start to melt away. "This place is like a maze."

"I know," he says, nodding. "All the corridors look the same. You'd think they'd at least try to make them distinctive in some way." He shakes his head. "Oh well, we're here now."

"That we are. So, what this is about? Because it looks to me like we're about to do some yoga or something."

"Your guess is as good as mine. When they said 'dress comfortably,' I assumed they'd be giving me a physical test." He grimaces. "Yet *another* physical test."

Alicia nods sympathetically. She opens her mouth to commiserate with him, but is interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Finally!" Viola mutters. Raising her voice a little, she calls out: "Come in."

Alicia isn't at all surprised when the last person to arrive turns out to be Will.

"Sorry I'm late," he says, grinning. "I got a little lost. I appreciate the minimalist design aesthetic, I really do, but I'm sure a couple of signs here and there wouldn't disrupt the feng shui all that much."

"Mr Gardner, I presume," says Viola, already making a mark on her sheet.

"You presume correctly. But please, call me Will."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Will. *Finally.*" Despite her sardonic tone, she still returns his smile. "Leave your shoes by the door and take a cushion." He does so, seating himself on Alicia's other side. He nods hello to Peter and flashes Alicia a grin. She rolls her eyes at him.

"Alright!" Viola proclaims, the word reverberating off the walls as she lets loose just a touch of her power. "Let's get this party started!"

She smiles around at the room. "So. As most of you know, I'm Viola Walsh, also known as the superheroine Siren. You can call me Viola, or Siren. I don't mind which." She flicks a quick glance in Will's direction. "*You*, Johnny-come-lately, can call me Ma'am."

"Yes, Ma'am," he says, smirking, making a gesture that vaguely resembles something that's almost-maybe-sort of a very lazy salute.

Viola doesn't dignify that with a response, instead continuing to address the whole group.

"I will be your instructor today, and I'm going to be teaching you something very important indeed." She looks around the room, as if making sure that she has everybody's attention. (She does.) "I'm going to teach you how not to rip yourself apart with your own powers."

Alicia draws in a sharp breath, hears the soft sound of other people doing the same. If anyone wasn't giving Viola their full and undivided attention before, they certainly are now.

"I thought that would make you prick your ears up," Viola smirks. "It usually does. Right. You already known about the so-called Threshold Problem." It isn't precisely a question, but some of the group nod. "And you know the solution to that problem involves nifty high-tech generators." More nods. "Well, now it's time for you to start learning how to use them."

She looks around the room, meeting each one of their gazes in turn.

"I bet you're wondering what this hippy dippy crap is all about, aren't you?" She waves a hand, the gesture taking in the whole room and it's rather unusual contents. She waits a beat, but no one says anything. "What, am I talking to myself? I *said*: you're wondering about this hippy-dippy crap, *aren't* you?"

There's a half-hearted chorus of yes-es, mmm-hmms and yeahs. Well, apart from will (but of course), who snaps out a resounding: "Yes, *Ma'am*!"

"Heh. Don't get cute, you," she admonishes him.

"But I'm so good at it," he mock-pouts.

Alicia smiles to herself, shaking her head a little. Trust Will to be the class clown. It's just like being back at Georgetown. 'Well,' she amends, looking around at the room. 'Maybe not *quite* like being back there.' She hears Peter snort quietly beside her, but she's not sure if the sound signifies amusement or derision. Given the way the two of them seem to veer between butting heads and a kind of brusque camaraderie, it could very well be either.

Or both.

Viola grins briefly, but doesn't otherwise acknowledge Will's response.

"It's quite simple," she says, more seriously now. "We've tested several different approaches to teaching this particular skill-set, and it turns out that the most effective way involves using some fairly basic meditation and relaxation techniques. The behavioural psychologists insist that this set up is 'highly conducive to the process of entering the mental state necessary to achieve optimal harmonisation.' Blah blah blah. So, there we have it. The eggheads have spoken. And to make it even more effective, I'm going to be using my powers to help you."

A stir runs through the group at that. No one actually voices a protest, but there's a general stiffening; a closing off and shutting down. Alicia feels her face freeze, feels something like fear trail icy fingers all the way along her spine. 'Her powers? She's going to use her *powers* on us?'

"You don't like the idea of that, do you?" Viola murmurs.

Alicia starts a little as the words seem to come from just behind her, as if Viola is leaning over her shoulder to whisper in her ear. She only just suppresses the urge to turn around and make sure there's no one there. From the unease on the others' faces -- and the couple who evidently had and gave into the very same urge -- her experience wasn't unique.

Unwillingly, she finds herself feeling a little impressed.

"Oh, don't worry," Viola says brightly, and this time the sound comes from where she's actually standing, just like it's supposed to. "All I'm going to do is help you relax and open your minds a little. Nothing more than that, and nothing that's going to persist after you leave this room. I promise. It just makes the harmonisation process much easier and much faster than if you stumble towards it on your own. Okay?" Silence. "I *said*: okay?"

There's a low, reluctant chorus of assent. Alicia joins in with it, although she still has misgivings. No, not just misgivings. The whole idea of letting Viola use mind control on her gives her the heebie-jeebies. But the thought of running headfirst into the Threshold Problem freaks her out even more. She saw the pictures. They all did. She absolutely, positively, never *ever* wants that to happen to her. So, avoiding that fate means letting Viola sweet-talk her into a meditative state, well, she'll just have to grit her teeth and bear it.

Well, not grit her teeth, per se. That would seem to be the polar opposite of relaxation. But endure it. Because it's necessary.

(Assuming it is, of course, and this isn't just Viola indulging in a little power trip at the expense of the new blood. But that's just paranoia talking.)

"Right!" Viola claps her hands together, startling Alicia out of her reverie. "You know that all of us superhumans are sensitive to specific frequencies of radiation." General agreement. "And you know that the generators broadcast power on those particular frequencies." More agreement, a little louder and more confident than last time. "You're more than likely already aware of the local generator grid, at least on a subconscious level. What we're going to do today is to make you *consciously* aware of it. Then we're going to have you try pulling a little power from it. Nothing big, just enough so that you know how to do it. Okay?"

The answering chorus this time is somewhat more enthusiastic.

"Alright then. Ladies and gentlemen, please get to your feet and find a clear space on the floor. First, we're going to start with some simple stretching and balance exercises..."

The exercises are vaguely familiar to Alicia, both from her college yoga classes and from the past few weeks' training and tests. It's harder than it used to be to keep her movements slow and soft and controlled. She still hasn't really gotten used to being so fast or so strong. But she's learning how to control it. Learning fast, really, despite her occasional mishaps.

She just hopes she's learning fast enough.

"Good," says Viola, when they're done with the stretches. "You should all be nicely limbered up, all nice and aware of your own bodies. Sit down, make yourself comfortable and we'll do the same with your minds."

One of the other people in the group -- class? team? -- raises her hand. Alicia has only exchanged a few words with her in passing, barely more than introductions and the odd hello. Her name is Elsbeth. She's a slight woman with pale skin and hair so red that the colour has to come out of a bottle.

"Yes?" Viola says, raising her eyebrows.

"Excuse me, um, Siren? Do we have to sit lotus style?"

"Only if that's how you feel comfortable. Sit however's good for you. Hell, lie down if you prefer. I don't care. And you don't need to raise your hand to ask a question. We're not in school anymore."

"Okay, then. Thank you!" Elsbeth trills. She beams at Viola, but then her expression abruptly changes, melting into a thoughtful frown. "I wonder why they call it lotus-style," she murmurs. "Do you know?"

"No, can't say that I do," Viola says, rolling her eyes. "Anyway-"

"It's supposed to be good for your posture," Elsbeth continues, talking right over her. "Help get everything aligned just so, you know? But then, when it comes to total relaxation, there's a lot to be said for lying supine. Oh, what a funny word. Supine. Suuuuu-pine. Supine!"

She giggles, clasping her hands in glee, apparently completely oblivious to the fact that everyone in the group -- Viola included -- is now staring at her incredulously. Alicia feels her own lips twitching with amusement. There's something about Elsbeth's cheerfulness that's just so... infectious. But she's looking thoughful again, staring off into the distance -- Alicia has to fight the urge to try to see what she's looking at -- before suddenly fixing Viola with an intent gaze.

"Breakfast," she says, firmly.

Viola blinks. "Breakfast?"

"Breakfast!" Elsbeth nods as if she's made her point.

"Uh, you're gonna have to expand on that, Honey. My schtick is mind-control, not mind-reading."

"Oh, well, I'm not complaining, really I'm not. The food here is great. Well, plentiful. But it's awfully... What's the word? Where it sits just here." She pats her stomach, pulling a face. "For hours and hours."

"Heavy?" Viola suggests.

Elsbeth tilts her head. "No... Well, yes, but that's not the one I'm thinking of. What *am* I thinking?"

"Good question," murmurs a man named Julius.

"Stodgy?" offers Will.

"Yes!" Elsbeth taps her nose with one hand, pointing at Will with the other, just like she was playing a game of charades and Will guessed correctly. "Exactly! Stodgy. That's it. Clever boy! And soooo handsome." She smiles at Will, and then looks confused. "What was I talking about?"

"Breakfast," Alicia supplies.

"Right, thanks. Ooh, I *love* your hair. I don't know how you manage to get it to stay up like that. Mine always straggles loose." She pats her pony-tail which, as she says, has stray hairs all over the place. "You'll have to show me how you do it. Will you show me?"

"Uh, sure." It's not like she can really refuse those pleading eyes.

"Yay!" Elsbeth claps her hands. "Oh! But I'm getting distracted."

"I hadn't noticed," Viola murmurs, shaking her head.

"Speaking of breakfast, the food this morning was so *stodgy*." Elsbeth pronounces the word with relish. "It's not good to have stodgy food before you meditate. It's very distracting to have it just sitting there in your stomach. Like a lump." She grimaces. Alicia can't help but note that she has a very expressive face. "At least, I find it distracting. Ooh, pretty!" Elsbeth leans forward abruptly. "Your top is so shiny. I love that!" She straightens like a jack-in-the box, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. "Maybe you could pass that on to the people in charge? The food, I mean. Not your shiny, shiny top. Get them to maybe rethink the menus?"

"I'll... see what I can do." Viola is looking at Elsbeth like she has no idea what to make of her. "Now if we-"

"Great! Thank you!

"You're welcome. Now," Viola tries again. "If we can *please* get back to today's lesson? Everyone please take a comfortable and relaxing position." Elsbeth opens her mouth as if to speak, but this time Viola overrides her. "*Quietly*."

Elsbeth nods vigorously, putting a finger on her own lips as she sinks to the ground. She actually does sit lotus-style. Full lotus, Alicia is impressed -- and slightly envious -- to note. Alicia herself settles down with her legs tucked neatly to the side, ankles crossed. Will stretches out on his back, his hands tucked behind his head. Peter sits with his back against wall, one knee bent and one leg stretched out flat on the ground.

"Now," Viola says, once everyone has settled down in their own way. "For this next part, all you have to do is breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Keep that rhythm going. In. Out. In. Out." As she speaks, the sound seems to become fuller, more resonant, wrapping around Alicia like soft velvet.

'This must be her power working,' Alicia thinks, feeling unease twist her stomach.

"Relax..." A whisper, only a whisper, and yet the word seems to fill the whole of the room, seems to fill Alicia's whole body from her head down to her toes. "You're safe here. There's nothing to worry about. Relax. Just breathe."

It's not like Alicia stops being aware that Viola -- Siren -- is using her powers on them. It just doesn't seem to matter anymore. And why would it? It's not like there's anything to worry about. She's perfectly safe here.

Siren keeps talking, her voice like honey and silk, melting away stresses and tensions that Alicia hadn't even been aware of until they eased. She feels her awareness sinking down, down, down into herself, seeming to hone to razor-sharp clarity even as it expands along an infinite horizon.

"Listen. Listen for the sound. More than a sound. Deep inside, always with you, always there. Always. Listen. *Feel*."

Alicia listens.

And she *hears*.

How could she not have noticed this before? How could she not have realised? It's there; of course it's there. It's been there ever since she woke up for the first time after completing the procedure.

But Viola was wrong; it's not just a single note, a single sensation.

It's a symphony.

No, that's not quite right either. It's more like... dozens upon dozens of overlapping symphonies, each one differing ever-so-slightly from the others. But instead of clashing, instead of sounding like a discordant jangle of noise, it all somehow harmonises.

It's... really very strange, but also oddly compelling. Or maybe it's compelling because it's so strange.

She tries to focus, tries to separate it into its component parts, but it's just too complex. Maybe when she's had the chance to study it properly...

But Siren is speaking again.

"Concentrate on the sound. One thread should stand out from the others, should feel like this." She makes a sound that just shouldn't be possible for a human throat to make. It sounds a little like...

There!

Triumphantly, Alicia zeroes in on a thread of sound, a fragment of the whole, one symphony out of dozens.

"Have you got it?"

Alicia's voice sounds strange to her own ears when she answers yes. It's joined by a chorus of affirmatives.

"Good. That segment you're focusing on is the broadcast from the local grid. Concentrate on it. Learn its sound."

As Alicia concentrates, that particular set of sounds and sensations seems to broaden and expand, filling whatever mysterious senses she's using to detect it and completely drowning out the other harmonics. Frowning, she tries to bring them back.

"You should only be able to hear the local grid now. That's normal. That's *good*. Unless there is a very good reason not to -- and we're talking real, honest to god emergencies here -- you should only ever draw from the grid nearest to you. It's more efficient and, most importantly, it's safest for all concerned. Luckily, it's generally fairly easy to work out which signal corresponds to the local grid."

The information helps to soothe Alicia's immediate worry, but it raises a whole host of questions. Before she can ask any of them, however, Viola speaks again.

"Focus on the signal from the local grid. Hold it clearly in your mind."

It couldn't be any clearer to Alicia right now. She feels like a tapped tuning fork, like her whole body is vibrating to a single, pure note.

"Imagine it surrounding you, flowing around you like air. Like the smoke from these incense sticks. Imagine it filling this room with energy."

The first thought that comes to Alicia's mind is that the description doesn't even make sense; that Viola is mixing her metaphors into incomprehensibility.

The second thought is that she can picture *exactly* what Viola means.

In Alicia's imagination, it's like she's floating through a sea of light, carried along by the swirls and eddies of its restless motion.

"As you breathe in, imagine the tiniest trickle of it being drawn in with the air, being pulled deep into your lungs. Imagine it spreading out into your body.

The sensation is... invigorating. It's like a caffeine buzz, or a sugar high. An adrenaline spike without the panic; like she can *do* things.

Wondrous, glorious things.

It's rather intoxicating.

"Hold it there for a few moments as you continue to breathe in and out. In. Out. In. Out."

She has the feeling that if she wasn't so calm and relaxed, she'd be feeling really rather hyper about now.

"Now imagine drawing the energy back from your body, back into your lungs, letting it pool there. And the next time you breathe out, let it flow out of you and back into the room."

This leaves her feeling oddly empty.

Siren has them all repeat the exercise a few times before she's satisfied. It seems to get easier with each repetition.

"Now, think about your abilities, and about the training exercises you were practicing yesterday. Hold those memories in your minds. Remember how it felt."

Flying. Well, hovering. Lifting herself a few inches off the ground for minutes at a time. (The sneaking suspicion that she could fly much higher and for much longer if they'd only let her, but being forbidden to do so.)

"Stand up, everybody. Find a clear space, and perform the exercises you've just been thinking about. Just do them once, and then stop."

Alicia hovers. Tiny sparks dance on one of Will's palms. Peter snaps his fingers and makes a small orange flame. The others do various interesting and cool things.

"Good. In a few moments, you're going to draw in more energy, but this time you're not just going to breathe it out again. You're going to use it to power your abilities. Think about doing that. Imagine how you're going to channel the energy into the effect you want. Picture it in your mind. Think about how it feels to channel that energy, and how it feels to use your powers. Think about how to make them work together."

Siren keeps talking, and Alicia finds herself thinking about flying, about drawing the light inside herself and letting it pull her upwards. Of feeling it skip along nerves she never even had before, activating whatever organs or cells she uses to defy gravity.

"Ready?"

The murmured yes-es sound more like questions than affirmations, but they seem to be good enough for Siren.

"Draw in energy again and hold it." She pauses briefly while they do so. "On my command, take a deep breath in, and then as you breathe out, channel the energy into your abilities, using it to repeat the exercises you've just done. So. Deep breath in."

The group's combined inhale is actually audible.

"And out."

Alicia breathes out, and it feels like her whole body lights up.

Her skin tingles, her nerves crackling with power.

And she soars.

 

* * * * * *

 

Alicia looks up to see Owen eyeing her askance.

"What?" she asks.

He shakes his head and sighs. "Where to even start? It just..." He leans back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head. "I guess I was just expecting something a little more scientific. Did they even tell you *why* you're all sensitive to those frequencies of radiation?"

"No," she says, softly.

"I didn't think so. Sounds like they didn't tell you a whole hell of a lot about the hows and whys of being a superhero. Just the... the *what* of it. Right?" He turns to look over at her, raising his eyebrows.

She shrugs, smiling a little. "Right."

He frowns, starts to say something, stops, shakes his head, mutters something under his breath, and starts again.

"So, can you sense all the generator grids in the state? The country? Hell, the whole world? What's the range on that?"

She wonders idly what he was going to say, but focuses on answering the question he did ask. "I don't really know. I think there is a range limitation, but I don't know what that is. We were taught to identify and draw from the nearest grid, which always has the strongest and clearest signal. We weren't really encouraged to test our limits."

"Why not?" Owen's voice is sharp.

"Safety. If the signal isn't strong enough, we won't be able to draw a steady flow of power and that would be..." A chill goes down her spine. "That would be very bad. So we need to get into the habit of locking onto the strongest signal and filtering out the rest."

"That makes sense, I guess," he says, grudgingly, pulling a strange face.

It's her turn to raise her eyebrows now. "What bit your ass?"

"It's just... Never mind." He waves a hand dismissively. "Next question. Do the grids all feel the same, aside from distance? Or is every one unique?"

"They're all unique. Each one has its own tone, its feel. Its own..." She waves a hand vaguely, searching fruitlessly for words. "Fingerprint. I can't really describe it, but I can always tell them apart. I recognise the ones I've drawn from before."

"And the mobile generators?"

She gives him a sharp look. "How do you know about those?" He just raises one eyebrow, steepling his fingers like a Bond villain. She rolls her eyes at his shenanigans. "What about them?" she asks.

"Do they feel different to the fixed ones?"

"Maybe? I've only drawn from two, so I can't say for certain. But the strongest signal always seems to correspond to the nearest grid, whether it's made of mobile generators or fixed ones."

"Hmmm," Owen says.

She waits to see if he's going to add anything else, but he seems lost in thought. "Is that important?" she prompts.

"Probably. Maybe. I don't know." He leans forward again, frowning deeply, muttering something under his breath. Alicia waits patiently, knowing he's building up to something by the way he's drumming his fingers restlessly on the table, by the tension in his shoulders and the way he almost seems to be having an argument with himself. Eventually, he blows out an explosive breath and turns to look at her again. "This doesn't make sense!"

"What doesn't?"

"People can't just... tap into wireless energy broadcasts. The human body isn't built to run on electricity. You should fry your nerves."

"The process changes us," she tries to explain, but he's already shaking his head.

"Yes, yes," he says, impatiently. "I know that. But biology is biology. There are some things that can't be altered and still leave you functional. At least that's what I *thought*. It just... I just... Aaarrggh!" Throwing his hands up in the air, he launches himself out of his chair and starts pacing the room.

"I don't know what to say, Owen," Alicia says, slowly. "Whether or not you think it should work, it clearly does, so..."

"None of this makes sense!" He flings his hands up in exasperation. "*You* don't make sense!"

"Your face doesn't make sense," she replies, automatically falling back into old habits. "What do you mean: I don't make sense?"

"I mean: you don't make sense. None of you superheroes do." He collapses into the armchair, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he has a headache coming on. "Let me put it this way. Why can you fly?"

"Why can I...?" She shakes her head. "I don't know. I just can. It's one of my powers."

Owen sits up, leaning forward. Resting his elbows on his knees, he steeples his fingers before him, his earnest expression reminding her that he is, after all, a lecturer. She suddenly has a flash of insight into what his students must see when he teaches them.

"But *why* is it one of your powers?" he asks, quietly. "Think about it. Peter can control heat and flames; flight is one logical extrapolation of that power. Will can affect electromagnetic forces. I can think of several ways that can be used to propel him across the skies. But you? You're a brick, Alicia!"

"Charming!" she sniffs.

"No, I mean, your power type. Super strong, super tough, super healing. Able to take a lot of damage. It's called being a brick. Just like how someone who controls electricity or light would be a spark, uh, energy manipulator. Or how someone who shapes rock or animates water would be an elementalist. It's just a category, okay?"

"So, I'm a brick." She folds her arms and meets his gaze with raised eyebrows. "So what?"

"So, how can a brick fly? It isn't logical! It isn't consistent with anything else in the power set! And yet, there it is!"

Alicia is a little concerned by the way her brother's face is growing redder and redder, those little veins in his temples standing out in a way she's only ever seen when he's really pissed off about something. She should probably try to calm him down, but how?

She grins suddenly. "Superman can fly," she points out.

Owen just stares at her for a moment, so that at first she thinks she's miscalculated; that humour isn't the way after all. But then he sighs heavily, slumping back into his chair.

"Superman is fictional," he mutters. He sighs again, and then shakes his head. "Oh, whatever. It's late, I'm tired, and I need a drink." Suiting the action to the words, he gets up and grabs a beer from the little cooler he brought with him. "What about you? Another glass of red?"

"Yes, please." She accepts the glass -- well, plastic cup -- gratefully, sipping slowly to savour the taste. Silence settles over the room, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

"You know," Owen says, suddenly. "There are whole internet communities formed around trying to figure out how you superheroes' powers work, and why you get the powers you do."

She raises her glass. "Good luck with *that*," she says, wryly. "The scientists at Heroes, Inc -- and, presumably, the ones who worked on the project before it went private -- have been trying to figure it out for years."

Owen sits up eagerly, almost spilling his beer. "And?" he asks.

Alicia shrugs. "Apparently there are some correlations between personality type and power category, but those are far from perfect. There are a lot of disagreements between the scientists in question. The one thing they do agree on is that there seems to be some kind of psychological structure underpinning an individual's abilities."

"Psychological structure?" He frowns. "What does that mean?"

"That they have to fit together in a way that makes sense to the person whose powers they are." She takes another sip of wine. "Apparently, parts of the process really are more art than science."

Owen is quiet for a few moments, his gaze faraway, his beer bottle hanging forgotten in his hand. "What was it like?" he asks, eventually.

She looks at him. "What was what like?"

"The procedure. The Prometheus protocol. The process that turned you into a superhuman. What did it involve?"

Again, the stern phrases of the non-disclosure agreements flutter through her mind, but she waves them away. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"Brain surgery," she says, matter-of-factly.

"Brain surgery?" Owen sounds part horrified, part fascinated.

"Yep." She takes a somewhat longer swallow of wine. "They put a scaffold around my head to stop me moving, cut my skull open and stuck things in my brain."

"Didn't they give you an anaesthetic?" 'Horrified' seems to have the upper hand at the moment.

"A local in my scalp, but not a general. I had to be awake while they were poking around in my head."

He blinks a few times, the expression on his face slightly bewildered. "Why?"

"So they could be sure they weren't about to accidentally lobotomise me, or give me amnesia, or make me blind, or cause any other unfortunate side-effects. It's actually pretty common for a patient to be awake during brain surgery. That way, you can tell them if everything goes black, or if you suddenly forget your own name."

"Wow." He shakes his head. "Wow. That is hard-core. So, was that it?"

"There was more surgery, but I was unconscious for that. And I had a bunch of injections over the week before the surgery, plus lots and lots of food supplements. I don't know what was in them, though." She shrugs. "Sorry I'm not much help."

"That's okay. It's more than I knew before." He looks up at Alicia, giving her a grin, or at least attempting to. It's a wan, sickly thing that does nothing to hide the concern in his eyes. "I'm just starting to realise how little I know about what really goes on in those labs. About what they've done to you."

"It's okay, Owen," she hastens to reassure him. "I'm okay. And I did sign up for this."

"But not for god knows what kind of evil experiments!" he exclaims, sitting up straight up and slapping the arm of the chair with his free hand.

"We don't know that I'm being experimented on," she says, but her voice isn't as steady as she'd like. She drains the rest of her wine and gets up to pour some more.

"No, but there's a chance that you are. That's why you're here, isn't it? Because you wanted my help figuring it out?"

"Yes, but..." she breaks off and sighs. "Yes. I need your help, Owen." Her throat feels tight, so she tries to clear it with a deep swallow of wine.

It doesn't help much.

"Alright then." Owen nods decisively. "Now, where were we."

As he starts to talk, Alicia leans back against the wall, settling herself comfortably on the bed. She lets his words wash over her, trying to absorb everything she can.

Maybe between the two of them, they can figure this out.

Well, the two of them and Kalinda.

And maybe everything will be okay.

Maybe.

 

* * * * *

 

Alicia touches down gently on the roof, a text-book perfect landing. She bounces a little on the balls of her feet, trying to shake off the tiredness -- more mental than physical -- she can feel lurking at the edges. It's been a long night.

"Hey."

She feels a smile spread over her face at the soft greeting.

"Hey, yourself," she replies, turning to face Kalinda, whose own lips quirk briefly in a small smile before her expression sobers again.

"How are you doing?"

Alicia bites back the instinctive 'better for seeing you,' instead going with: "I'm doing okay, I guess. Better for the time away."

"I can imagine," Kalinda says, softly.

"How about you?"

Kalinda gives a small shrug. "A little short on sleep," she says, wryly. "But otherwise fine."

She doesn't look short of sleep. As far as Alicia can tell, she looks just as alert and well-turned out as always. But then, Alicia can't help thinking that would likely be the case even if Kalinda hadn't slept for a week straight. Nevertheless, she gives Kalinda a sheepish look.

"Sorry about the lack of sleep," she says. "I guess Eli ran you pretty ragged last night?"

"It wasn't too bad. He saw your message before it got too late, so that took some of the pressure off."

Alicia has to bite her tongue to stop herself asking 'what message?' But she remembers Kalinda saying she had one queued up and ready to go if it became necessary.

"Did it help?"

"Some. But I'm afraid Eli's still... a little displeased."

Alicia winces. "I just bet he is. I guess I'd better get that conversation out of the way so he doesn't have time to stew any more."

"That might be wise," Kalinda says. Which, no doubt, is a diplomatic way of saying that Eli is in full Vesuvius mode and the longer Alicia leaves it, the greater the eventual eruption.

Oh well. Alicia knew there was going to be a price for playing hooky. All in all, she's sure it was worth it.

"Can we talk, after?"

"I have an appointment soon," Kalinda says, sounding regretful. "But I can come and find you when I get back, if you like."

"I'd like that." Alicia can't help a pang of disappointment. It would make facing Eli down so much easier if she knew Kalinda was out there waiting for her. But it can't be helped. "Is your appointment anything interesting?"

"Just chasing up a lead. Speaking of which, I really should be heading off now."

"I won't keep you, then. Thanks for checking in with me, though. I really appreciate it."

"Oh, it was no trouble."

Walking side by side, they both make their way towards the elevators.

And Alicia can't help but wonder just how much trouble she's in.


End file.
